


Watch What Happens

by ModernDayBard



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M, Slice of Life, but the strike's in there too, life before and after the strike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 10:08:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 23,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernDayBard/pseuds/ModernDayBard
Summary: Re-Posted from my FF account--not stolenThe newsies of New York had lives before and after the strike, you know. What where they like? Find out by following the adventures of Squirt, close friend of Crutchie, one of the best newsies in Manhattan—oh, and she's a girl. (Based on Broadway show with nods to the film)





	1. Free As Fishes

**“Free As Fishes...”**

_...In Which Crutchie Is Somebody Else’s Hero for Once._

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer 1890_

The seven-year-old known to his fellow newsies as ‘Crutchie’ had finished selling his load of papes early that day—second time that week, so he was trying to figure out how many more he could safely afford to purchase in the morning. He supposed he could’ve asked some of the older boys for advice, but he didn’t really want to. He was the youngest, newest newsie at the lodge house at the moment, and his bum leg made even these rough-and-tumble boys treat him differently.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate that they cared for him—honestly, after so long being on his own, he had to admit a part of him liked knowing there were people who cared if he was okay. It was just...these boys who’d basically saved him from a crippled street orphan’s fate had quickly become his heroes, but there was no one who’d ever look up to a crip like _him_ that way.

The tow-headed boy tried to push the self-pitying thoughts away and return to the matter at hand, when too-familiar words caught his attention.

“Hey, kid! You can’t stop here—get on home!”

It took the limping boy a couple of heartbeats to realize that the policeman’s shout was no longer aimed at him—like Bruiser had told him on his first day, the simple newsie bag was his free pass to go anywhere he pleased in the city without looking like a homeless waif.

The same could not be said of the pitiable figure shrinking away from the officer: a girl of no more than six with thin, black hair and wide, grey-ish blue eyes. Crutchie recognized the look in her eyes all too well—wanting to obey, but unable to. Apparently, the policemen knew what it meant as well.

“If you don’t have a home, you have one choice—go to one of the factories, or go to jail. You can’t just stay a freeloader on the streets.”

Afterwards, Crutchie never could say what possessed him to interfere, other than a deep sense that a matter of weeks ago, he’d been in the same situation. He decided to do for this girl exactly what Bruiser had done for him (thankfully, this was not an officer he knew, so the man wouldn’t know him, either).

“Jus’ a moment, Officer!” he called, limping up as fast as he could, “She got a home—I swears!” Both turned to regard him with nearly identical expressions of surprise, but the young boy wasn’t going to be frightened out of his plan. “Dat’s my little sister, Officer, she jus’ got a little lost. I’m gonna take her home now, if dat’s okay?”

The man shrugged and walked away, and Crutchie held his free hand out to the dark-haired girl, who was still regarding him with that same half-surprised, half-frightened expression. “Hey, it’s okay. Dey kept doin’ de same to me, ‘till I became a newsie. If you want, I betcha you could be one to. You’ll get a home, an’ a new family—it’s da best life you can dream of. I mean, you don’ _have_ to if you don’ _want_ to, but if you got nowheres else...”

Crutchie knew he was rambling, but he just didn’t want this girl to look so afraid—because he knew exactly how she was feeling. Slowly she reached out and took his offered hand without a word, and her expression lost some of its fear and gained a little wonder: the face of someone who’d just been rescued by their big brother.


	2. What a Fine Life

**“What a Fine Life...”**

_...In Which Home Is a Sacred Treasure._

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer 1890_

Emily followed the limping boy through the streets of Manhattan, still holding onto the hand that wasn’t grasping his make-shift crutch. She wasn’t exactly sure what’d possessed her to trust this boy, other than to say it was just a sense or instinct that it would be okay if she went with him. Of course, anything was better than working in a factory...

“An’ here it is: da Lodge House...my home. Yours, too, if you wants ta stay.”

ith that, the dark-haired girl followed her energetic guide inside, sticking close behind him as some of her fear returned. Home? The idea seemed almost too good to be true.

One of the larger boys, the one who seemed to be in charge, visibly relaxed when he noticed her rescuer, before he saw _her_. “Dere you are, Crutchie. We was wonderin’ were you’d gotten...ta...” Emily felt his eyes on her as his voice trailed off. When he spoke again, his tone was sharper. “What da hell? Crutchie, who’s dat an’ why’d you bring her here?”

“I’m Emily,” she said, speaking up for the first time, “An’ I want ta be a newsie, too.”

Silence fell on the assorted boys, until another spoke up. “But she’s a _girl_—dere aren’t any girl newsies.”

“Look, she ain’t got anywhere else ta go,” her guide, who was apparently called Crutchie, put in. “Da cops were tellin’ her ta work in a factory or dey’d take ‘er ta jail.” Some of the older boys shifted uncomfortably at that, and Crutchie turned to the first one who’d greeted them. “Bruiser, it’s what dey were tellin’ _me_ when you said I was your brudder, an’ you brought me here.”

Emily watched, wide-eyed as Bruiser took a moment to process this. Finally, the tall, black-haired boy turned to her. “Well, squirt. You say you wants ta be a newsie. Why?”

Why did she? She’d never considered it until Crutchie told her she could. “I ain’t got nowhere else ta go, an’...an’ I _can’t_ go to a factory—I _can’t_.”

“Easy, squirt, dere’s no need to cry. We won’t make you go dere’s if you don’ wan’ ta. I jus’ wan’ ta know that you know what your getting’ yourself in ta. It’s a good life, as it goes, but it ain’t an easy one, for sure. An’ Kaiser’s got one point—dere are no girl newsies. It ain’t an entirely safe gig, see. You’d hafta cut your hair an’ dress like a boy. You’d hafta work outside in any weather, walkin’ till your feets wanta fall off and shoutin’ till youse ain’t got any voice left, jus’ to make a few bucks: enough ta get you trough de day. You still so sure you wants to be a newsie, squirt?”

It _still_ sounded better—safer—than a factory. “I’m sure.”

* * *

They cut her hair that night with Kaiser’s knife, so it was a rough job and still a little long, but then, it was about as long as the other boys, so it worked. They borrowed a shirt here, pants there, and so on from the smallest boys to get an outfit together for her. It was all a little big still on her slight frame, but that was alright. For a final step, Bruiser showed her where to smudge dirt on her face so that it was harder to tell she was a girl. Finally, the leader stepped back to admire their work.

“If I didn’t know better,” he decided at last, “I’d say you was no differen’ than us. Welcome to da family, Squirt.”

Emily—no, she was ‘Squirt’ now—grinned at that, glancing around the room at her new family: all of her ‘big brothers’, and especially Crutchie, the one who’d brought her here. Starting tomorrow, she was a real newsie.


	3. Crooked Game

**“Crooked Game...”**

_...In Which The Newsies Encounter ‘Girl Power’._

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer 1890_

Crutchie and Squirt were two of the earliest risers that next morning, and neither asked the other why. They knew enough to tell when the answer would’ve been the same, anyway:

_Dere ain’t no sleepin’ in on da streets._

Soon there were joined by the other, older boys, everyone clamoring to get ready for the day’s work. A bit of the old Emily returned, and she wanted to fade into the background and let the noise pass her by. But, no—she was Squirt now, she was a newsie, and this was her home, her family. She _belonged_ there.

Decision made, she forced her way in, taking her cue from the others as to when it was appropriate to push or tease as everyone half-wrestled for the precious sink space, or for breakfast food.

Well, at least the sink space. Bruiser pulled her and Crutchie aside as everyone headed to see what the nuns had brought. “I already got youse some of the better stuff. Dis ain’t pity!” he put in before either child could protest. “It’s strategy. Da sooner you eats, da sooner you get to line and de earlier you get your papes. Since Kaiser ‘n me are teachin’ you da ropes, it’s better for us if you can get your food dat much faster. Come on, let’s go. Kaiser said he’d meet us dere.”

* * *

The disguise had worked—Wiesel and the Delancey’s hadn’t given Squirt a second glance as Bruiser bought her some papes, explaining she’d pay him back that night and start buying her own in a day or two, once she got into her selling rhythm. Now it was time to decide where the students and teachers would be selling.

Squirt stood next to Crutchie, arms folded, ready to go with her first friend anywhere the older boys decided, but Bruiser shut that down immediately. “Alright, Crutchie, youse gonna be mostly on your own today, but youse been doin’ real good wit’ dat, so you’ll be fine. Kaiser’ll check in on you every few hours, just to make sure you ain’t forgotten everything we taught you dis month. Squirt, you’ll be shadowing me, and learnin’ on the job. Let’s go.”

She considered protesting, but Crutchie grinned at her. “It’s okay, Squirt. Bruiser’s da best dere is—he’ll show you all da tricks he knows. I’ll see you tonight!” With that, he took a firm grip on his crutch and limped off after Kaiser as fast as he could.

Emily felt a momentary flash of panic as he left her for the first time since he’d rescued her, but Squirt was excited at the prospect of her first day as a newsie. Bruiser lay a hand on the dark-haired girl’s shoulder, and began steering her towards the selling spot he’d already picked out.

* * *

It was a little frightening how good Squirt was after a little instruction. Bruiser taught her the four basic strategies: all-business, banter, inflated headlines, and pity-plays, but he hadn’t yet explained how to know when to use each one—his plan for day one was to pick out her targets, tell her which one to use and turn her loose.

But then he turned away for a second to sell one of his own papes, and when he turned back, Squirt was already talking with a man in a business suit, explaining why he needed that pape before he went into work, ‘cause how else would he know what had happened since the day before, and how that affected his business?

After the transaction had been completed, Bruiser nodded approvingly. “Not bad, Squirt. But can you tell me why you went all-business?”

“Easy—suit. He’s well-off and on the way ta work, so he’s used ta business-like talk. He wouldn’t like a pity play too much, and he looked too straight-laced for banter.”

After that, Bruiser took a more hands-off approach, watching as Squirt chose her own targets and, with a few exceptions, honed in on the right selling strategy to reel the suckers in. She seemed especially skilled at ‘pity plays’, even without revealing her true gender (which he made her promise never to ever do to anyone on the streets), though whether that was natural skill or the fact that she was so young and so small couldn’t be decided that early.

Still, the quiet, timid girl who’d been led into the Lodge House only the day before seemed to have almost completely disappeared behind the façade of the confident, dirt-faced newsie, Squirt, who wasn’t afraid to fight for his (her) due. He felt confident this girl could hold her own as a newsie.

But even with that confidence, he didn’t feel like he could or would leave her on her own, even with regular check-ups, for a week or two, at least. It wasn’t about her selling skill; it was just the plain fact that he didn’t know how her disguise would hold up, or what could/would happen to a girl in their life. As much as he’d told the others the night before not to treat her any differently, he knew that was much easier said than done—they weren’t going to be able to just forget Squirt was a girl, after all.

“Good day, Miss! Would you _*cough*cough*_ by me pape?”

An understated pity play: no mention of being an orphan or having no other job, but just to look at her was to know that was true, and the cough implied being sick without having to say it. And a kind-hearted sucker to the mix, and Squirt had just sold her tenth pape that hour.

_She’ll be fine—maybe the best of us all, eventually._


	4. Courage Cannot Erase Our Fears

**“Courage Cannot Erase Our Fears...”**

_...In Which the Newsies Learn That No One Is Too Young to Have a Past._

* * *

_Manhattan, Late Summer 1890_

Squirt had been living at the Lodge House for almost a month, and was selling more-or-less on her own, though a handful of the oldest boys did tend wander by her spot every few hours. They never lingered, and some didn’t even approach the newest, youngest newsie, but it was clear that Bruiser wasn’t the only one harboring worries about how their ‘little sister’ would fare in the long run.

For the moment, though, it seemed their fears were unfounded: Squirt’s disguise held up marvelously, and she had the instincts of a born newsie. No, it was not on the streets that she struggled...

Crutchie usually tried to stay up as late as the bigger, older boys, but Squirt pretty much always fell asleep as soon as she lay down. The blonde by was one of the first to notice that his friend rarely slept peacefully—most nights, one could hear slight, muted whimpers or see Squirt flinch in the throes of a nightmare. It wasn’t every night, but often enough for the seven-year-old to worry.

“Why’s Squirt so upset? Ain’t she happy here?” He asked at last.

Kaiser shrugged. “She seems ta be. But dat don’t mean she was always happy before; da nightmares could be from her past.”

One of the other boys snorted quietly at that. “Kaiser, Squirt’s _six_. How much of a past do ya honestly think she’s got?”

That was the end of the conversation but not, as it turned out, the end of the matter.

* * *

About a week after that night, Bruiser was the last newsie left awake. Or so he thought—until he noticed Crutchie was up and out of bed. He carefully picked his way over, ready to scold the younger boy in a whisper, when he realized that the seven-year-old was leaning over Squirt’s bed, and the girl was tossing, whimpering, and crying in her sleep.

“She won’t wake up,” Crutchie told him when he noticed the leader of their little band approaching. “Somethin’s wrong an’ I can’t get her to wake up!”

Laying one comforting hand on the boy’s slight shoulders, Bruiser leaned over Squirt as well, hesitating. When one of the boys had a nightmare (as sometimes happened) the kindest thing to do was ignore it and not make them feel weak. But few of them were as bad as this...

Before he could make up his mind, the girl woke up on her own, pressing a fist to her own mouth to keep from crying out. Crutchie immediately slipped from Bruiser’s grip, sitting next to Squirt. “Hey, hey, Squirt—it’s me an’ Bruiser. You just had a dream—dat’s all. It’s okay now, I promise.”

Bruiser noticed that the younger newsie was still crying silently, and doubted that it _was_ okay, but he still wasn’t sure what the best course of action was. Still, Crutchie seemed to have the best instincts when it came to helping Squirt, so he followed the other boy’s lead, sitting next to Squirt. Before he could even speak, the girl shifted so she was between them, clinging to their arms.

“We got youse, Squirt,” Bruiser managed at last.

“Thank you.”

The two words were whispered in a voice so small, he almost missed them, and it was Crutchie who voiced the question: “What for, Squirt?”

“Not lettin’ dem take me to a fact’ry. I couldn’t go dere.”

“You said dat before,” Crutchie remembered. “Is dat what you were dreamin’ ‘bout?”

Squirt nodded quickly, ducking her head to hide a tear-stained face. “My momma and sister worked in a fact’ry. Dey hid me at home so I wouldn’t have ta. Dey were tryin’ ta get da money ta sen’ me ta school.”

Bruiser grew still, not as surprised as Crutchie seemed to be that Squirt had a family—most who came to the Lodge House were looking to replace something they’d had and lost.

“What happened?” Crutchie asked before Bruiser could stop him.

Squirt didn’t answer at first, though Bruiser could feel her grip on his arm tighten. “De fact’ry dey were in caught fire, an dey never came home. I got kicked out of de apartment, an’ I couldn’t find dem.”

Bruiser remembered a big factory fire about a year before: it’d been a bad one, with most of the workers trapped inside. A lot of girls and women had died that day, and Bruiser felt a little sick as he remembered how excited he had been to have a story that moved papers all on its own—the newsies had gotten a fantastic three days out of the story, and a decent week following that—and he’d never spared much of a thought about the people who’d died, or the families they’d left behind.

He watched as Crutchie muttered something comforting to the girl, eventually getting her back to sleep—a peaceful one, this time.

Finally, Bruiser was the only one awake, and he kept glancing over at the smallest form, his mind going back to the previous week’s conversation:

_“Kaiser, Squirt’s six. How much of a past do ya honestly think she’s got?”_

_Enough of one, dat’s for sure._


	5. Captain Jack

**“Captain Jack...”**

_...In Which Someone New Arrives in the Lodge House._

* * *

_Manhattan, Late Spring 1891_

Squirt had been living at the Lodge House for about nine months when the new boy showed up. Things had finally settled for the only girl newsie—her disguise had been proven effective, she sold more papers than anyone of the other young kids, and she’d been accepted as one of the guys—and even her nightmares had grown less frequent. Yes, her new life was looking good...

...until one Jack Kelly moved in.

* * *

Jack was nine when Kaiser led him into the Lodge House—a year older than Crutchie and two years older than Squirt, and there was an air of defiance and self-sufficiency that made him seem even older than that. Most of the younger newsies began following ‘Captain Jack’ around pretty quickly, and none more so than Crutchie, who seemed to idolize the dark-haired boy. His tales of the Refuge (what few he told), and his daring escape (which he told often) served to heighten his popularity with his little band.

Squirt, for her part, was impressed with his resourcefulness, but a little jealous that her best friend spent more time with the newcomer than with her. Even with that, she could have tolerated Jack, maybe even come to see him as a friend, had it not been for his final sin:

“But you’re a _girl_!”

Squirt faced the taller figure, hands planted on her hips. “So what, Kelly? Dat doesn’t mean I can’t play wit’ youse.”

“It’s not playin’, it’s wrestlin’. I don’t want to fight no little girl!” Jack insisted, matching her glare for glare.

Crutchie held his breath, as did several of the other younger boys, watching. Squirt was notoriously stubborn, but so was Jack, so the argument could’ve gone on forever, but then he said those fateful words...Squirt barely tolerated ‘girl’, but ‘little girl’ was the final straw.

“Dat’s it, Kelly: I’m sick and tired of youse treatin’ me like I can’t do nothin’. Jus’ ‘cause I’m a girl doesn’ mean I’m some helpless skirt. I’m jus’ as good as youse—in fact, I bet I’m better!” With no further warning, Squirt launched herself at the taller boy, fists flying.

She’d gotten into a few fist fights since coming to the Lodge House, and several of her ‘big brothers’ had given her pointers. Adding to that was the element of surprise, since Jack hadn’t expected her to physically strike out, and the younger newsie had a solid upper hand. At last Jack was pinned, with the new additions of a black eye and bloody nose, staring up in shock at the girl’s furious gaze.

“Now I see why youse don’t want to fight a ‘little girl’—you’re afraid you’ll lose!”

There was a moment of silence, as all assembled waited to hear what Jack’s response would be. ‘Captain Jack’ mustered a sideways grin as he offered the olive branch. “What little girl? I jus’ lost to a nu’der newsie.”

Squirt matched his smirk, allowing him to stand, and Crutchie felt himself relax. The truce between his two friends had been reached, and accepted.


	6. Rotten Fruit and Perfect Aim

**“Rotten Fruit and Perfect Aim...”**

_...In Which a Dangerous Weapon Is Forged._

* * *

_Manhattan, Late Spring 1892_

Snipes, who’d joined the Manhattan newsies a couple of months after Jack, had finally finished a long, hard day of selling papers and returned to the Lodge House to relax in his own, special way. He’d lined up empty bottles and cans at various heights and distances and was systematically attacking them with his treasured slingshot. He managed to hit about three out of four—average for him—and he was setting up the targets for the fifth or sixth time when Squirt approached him. The other eight year old silently watched as Snipes set up the last of the targets, so the newer newsie was finally forced to ask. “You want sometin’, Squirt?”

“Can you teach me ta do dat?” she asked at last, pointing to his little shooting range.

Out of habit, he started to refuse, (he liked being the only boy with this particular skill), but stopped, sizing up the other newsie. She wasn’t begging, she just seemed curious. “Ah, why not? Come here; I’ll try ta show you how it’s done.”

It took a little bit before Squirt could consistently shoot straight without snapping herself in the face or wrist, but to his surprise, Snipes didn’t get frustrated. If anything, Squirt’s determination was kind of fun to the boy, as it reminded him of his own attempts to master the skill. Once she got past her first few hang-ups, however, she was actually a good shot, managing to match, if not better his score.

Little did he know just what he had unleashed...

* * *

In the coming weeks, whenever the younger crew teased Squirt, or began to treat her like a girl—or less than an equal—she’d demonstrate her newly acquired skill as a payback method. After a few weeks, she’d re-established her position in the Lodge House, and her attacks grew less frequent. The threat, however, remained there, daring her fellows to treat her any differently. She was one of the boys, and she wasn’t about to let them forget it.


	7. King of New York

**“King of New York...”**

_...In Which the Youngest Newsies Have a Little Downtime._

* * *

_Manhattan, Early Summer 1892_

Somedays were better selling than others—some days, the youngest newsies found themselves out of papers with at least an hour of day light left. Mostly that meant buying more papes the next day, but before the moment, it meant a rare taste of sun-lit freedom.

Jack looked at the assembled faces—not a large group, only Crutchie, Squirt, and the new boy, Race, in addition to himself. Only about half the ‘younger crew’, but still the most to have so much downtime for months. Now, the question was what to do with it. Common sense would’ve advocated getting something to eat, or planning the next day, but they were young enough to get away with ignoring common sense every once in a while.

“I gots an idea—let’s go to da park.”

Race frowned, confused. “What for—we ain’t got any more papes to sell.”

“We ain’t goin’ ta sell,” Jack corrected, “we’re goin’ ta have some fun.”

Crutchie and Squirt both perked up, interested, and Race wasn’t about to be the one dissenting voice. In short order, the four were bound for the nearest park. It was a brilliant day-not too hot, not too cold—but since, despite the daylight, it _was_ getting late, most people there were hurrying through, rather than lingering. In effect, the four newsies had it to themselves.

Race jumped up and grabbed the lowest branches of one tree, recklessly clambering up as high as he could. When the ten-year-old could go no further, he wrapped his legs around one branch, let go with his arms and cried, “I’m da King of New York!”

Crutchie cupped his hand around his mouth and hollered back. “Don’t you means you’re da King of da World?”

Jack laughed, clapping his young friend on da back. “Don’t you know dat’s da same ting?”

Then the dark-haired boy focused on the bench that had been placed in the shade of the tree that currently held Race, and he got an excited, mischievous gleam in his eye. He shepherded the other two over to it, and all three clambered on before Jack whispered something to Crutchie, who once again bellowed at the boy in the tree. “Hey, lookout! The cap’n wants ta know if dere’s any o’dder ships out dere!”

Race paused, momentarily confused, before grasping the game and called back, “We gots one dead ahead, uh...First Mate Crutchie!”

Crutchie laughed at his appointment before turning to his older friend and continuing the joke. “Captain Jack, da lookout says we gots a good one dead ahead. Should we take her?”

“We wouldn’t be good pirates if we’s didn’t!” Jack retorted, before turning to see Squirt frowning a little. “Sometin’ wrong?”

“You’re da cap’n, Crutchie’s da first mate, and Race is da lookout. What am I?”

Jack Kelly stopped to consider, remembering all too well their first and (so far) only fist-fight, and the ferocity with which she’d attacked. “You’s in charge of da cannons, of course!” Squirt immediately brightened, delighted at the prospect, and launched herself into the role with gusto.

The merchant ship never stood a chance.

* * *

Unbeknownst to the carefree four, they weren’t alone or unobserved in their play. Bruiser still had a few papers left when he stationed himself at the corner near the park to sell his last few. Ostensibly, he was making sure that four of ‘his’ newsies didn’t do something stupid and get hurt—which was likely, given how high up in the tree Race was—but there was a part of him that was ensuring no one else would do anything to endanger his little family.

But there was another part, down inside, that remembered how, only a few short years ago, it would’ve been him heading up a band of friends in a rare chance to play. “You’re da luckiest kids in da world right now,” he muttered as he heard them laugh at a joke in four-part harmony. “Kings of New York indeed.”


	8. Brooklyn's Here

**“Brooklyn’s Here...”**

_...In Which an Unlikely Friendship Is Formed._

* * *

_Manhattan, Late Fall 1892_

Newsies from Brooklyn go wherever they want to go—that’s what he older boys had been telling nine-year-old Spot since he’d joined their little band a few months before. One day, he finished selling early and decided to put it to the test. Bundled up against an early winter’s chill as best he could, the short and scrawny boy wandered into Manhattan, mostly to see just what would happen. He was trying to mimic the confidence of the older boys he worked with, but he felt a little silly.

He got distracted for a second, not seeing the two older boys until he ran into one of them. “Watch where you’re going, pipsqueak!” one of them growled, hauling a very surprised Spot up by the front of his shirt and pressing him against the wall.

“Hey, Morris!” the other laughed, “Check out da hat an’ bag—I think it’s one of da new newsies!”

A wicked grin spread across Morris’s face as he held the still-pinned boy. “I think you’re right, Oscar. Now look here, youse. Our uncle’s in charge of you little rats, so youse gotta tread careful round us, if you wanna keep your job!”

Spot was scared, but trying not to show it. “He’s not da boss of me—I’m from Brooklyn!”

“Den you got no business here, have you?” Oscar asked. “Trespassin’ dey call it.”

Spot knew what was coming—he could practically feel them winding up to unleash a beating on him. He squirmed, trying to break free, but the older, bigger boys held him fast. Before they could start hitting him, however, they were interrupted....by a tomato.

The rotting fruit hit Morris between the shoulder blades, drawing a roar of surprise and outrage. As his brother turned to see what had happened, he, too, got a projectile—this time to the face. Oscar was not as lucky as his Morris, however—his was a potato that was as hard as a rock. He reeled back, clutching his nose, unconsciously releasing Spot, who did the only thing he could think of to do—he ducked and ran down the alley towards the direction the produce had come from. Better unknown, unseen potential allies than definite enemies.

He’d only gotten halfway down the alley before small hands grabbed his arm and pulled him behind an upturned crate. Remembering the attack he’d only just escaped, he tried to twist away and shout when someone clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Quiet, or dose rotten Delancey’s will find us!”

It was a kid’s voice, and it cut through Spot’s panic enough to see two other kids crouching behind the crate with him. The blonde who’d spoken seemed to have a bum leg—at least, it w s at an odd angle and there was a crutch on the ground between them. The other, smaller figure was sitting up, keeping a careful lookout, and testing the weight of a shriveled apple, obviously ready to throw if the Delancey’s tried to follow their quarry. If the bags were anything to go by, he’d just been rescued by two Manhattan newsies. Embarrassing, but maybe not as bad as returning to Brooklyn covered in bruises.

Suddenly, the dark-haired newsie pitched the apple with frightening speed, ducking back down as another shout of pain testified the target had been hit. Still, the blonde asked. “Did you get him?”

“Yeah, Now Morris gots a black eye to go wit’ his brudder’s bloody nose.” Now that the third newsie was right beside him, Spot realized that he was actually bigger than the marksman—not a common occurrence for the scrawny boy. “I think dey learned dere lesson, I don’ hear dem comin’ dis way. Good shot by da way, Crutchie. Your aim’s getting’ better.”

The one apparently called Crutchie shrugged. “Potatoes is easy, Squirt—you’re still da best shot next ta Snipes, an even he needs da sling shot.”

Spot was still staring at Squirt, and when he realized the truth, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Are youse a girl?”

Both other newsies stiffened—apparently unused to people figuring it out. “Yeah, but it’s a secret,” she said at last. “You can’t tell _no_body.”

Spot glanced down at their bags—they still had papers in them, meaning these two had taken time away from their living to rescue a perfect stranger. “I swear I won’t tell anybody—not even da o’dders in Brooklyn. I’m Spot, by da way.”

“I’m Crutchie, and dis is Squirt. Da Delancey’s didn’t actually hit ya, did dey?”

“No, dey didn’t have time.” He wanted to thank them, but was loath to appear any weaker than he knew he already did—he, the tough kid from Brooklyn, had been saved by a girl and a crip.

Squirt sized him up. “You’re really from Brooklyn? I heard Paddy’s _tough_.”

Spot nodded, thinking of the boy in charge. “Someday, I’m gonna be big an’ tough like him, an’ den I’ll show dose Delancey’s what a kid from Brooklyn can really do.” He puffed his scrawny chest out, hoping he looked impressive and not ridiculous. “An—An’ if youse don’t tell anybody about dis, I’ll help _you_, when you need it—promise.”

He spat in his hand, extending it. They both mimicked his action, shaking on it. Crutchie smiled wide before he asked, “Think we could stop by Brooklyn sometime an’ see you?”

“Sure—jus’ say youse a friend of Spot, an’ it’ll be okay. Jus’ don’ tell ‘im how we met.” He looked at their bags again, feeling a little guilty. “Youse better get back to sellin’ if you wants to be able to get papes tomorrow.”

They both glanced down, as if they’d forgotten their burden temporarily. Maybe they had, in their rush to help. “Yeah,” Squirt admitted. “Bruiser will have a fit if we finish up too late.”

With that, they made their way out of the alley as fast as Crutchie could limp, pausing at the street to wave goodbye. Spot returned the wave, watching as his new friends disappeared from view.

“I promise,” he repeated, though there was no one to hear it. No one from Brooklyn—or anywhere else—would give those two a hard time as long as he had any say in the matter.


	9. I Thought I Knew

**“I Thought I Knew...”**

_...In Which Things Begin to Change._

* * *

_Manhattan, Late Fall 1894_

The Lodge House had yet another new tenant—a scrawny 12-year-old who insisted that he’d always been called ‘Romeo’. His various exploits were soon the source of much amusement, even if they didn’t seem to make much sense to the rest of the younger crowd.

“You got a’nudder girl every o’dder day,” ten-year-old Squirt pointed out. “Why so many—can’t get dem to ta stay?”

The other boys who were resting after a long day’s work laughed, but Romeo didn’t get angry. “If you never been in love, den you won’t understand. When I see a beautiful girl, I’se gots to be wit’ her, an’ den dere’s someone else, an’ my heart jus’ knows _she’s_ da one.”

“Dat’s crazy-talk,” Crutchie hot back. “If you can leave dem dat quickly, den you weren’t in love in da first place!”

Romeo snorted derisively but Squirt (whom the others had really begun to think of as a boy) jumped in. “He’s right, ya know. Love’s stayin’ wit’ someone trough da thick an’ thin; like family!”

Romeo just shook his head, refusing to relinquish his position as ‘the experienced one’. “Ah, how would you know? Neidder of youse has been in love before, have ya?”

Crutchie flushed a little. “No, but if I did, I wouldn’t leave her da nex’ week.”

“Yeah, cause some of us had got taste!” Squirt added, leaning back as if the point had been won. Her mind, though, was not so resolved. She fought with every fiber of her being not to glance over at Crutchie, who was sitting between her and Jack.

Somewhere in the conversation, as she’d been thinking about how she would react if she liked someone—if she was with someone—and especially as she and Crutchie were the main voices countering Romeo, she’d begun to realize that, sometime in the last four years, she’d begun to think of her first friend in the Lodge House a little differently...

_You gots ta be kiddin’ me—I gots a crush on Crutchie?_


	10. Winter's Freezin'

**“Winter’s Freezin’...”**

_...In Which Squirt Takes a Chance._

* * *

_Manhattan, Winter 1894_

After Squirt’s realization, she had to work hard to keep herself from acting any differently around Crutchie. The last thing she wanted was to lose her friend, but he seemed as cheerful and oblivious as always, thankfully.

* * *

Christmas for the Newsies rarely involved any kind of gift exchange—they could barely afford to eat, after all—but it was at least the one day of the year that they didn’t have to go out and sell, so the boys (and Squirt) generally stayed inside, joked around, and made harmless trouble. That year was no different but by that evening, things had begun to wind down as energy waned and a long day’s selling the next day loomed.

Still, in an effort to prolong the games, a series of dares had been given, received, and acted upon, to general amusement. Just as Squirt had made up her mind to turn in for the day, Race turned to her. “Hey Squirt, I dares you to...”

She rolled her eyes, waiting. Suffice it to say that Race’s dares had been decidedly vague and unimaginative the whole night.

“...to take a chance.”

The others all began to scoff and tease the eleven-year-old asking him what he’d even meant by that, when Squirt stood, feigning nonchalance. “Well, I’m gonna take a chance I don’t die in my sleep. Good night.”

Truth be told, she knew Crutchie was following her to upstairs, also heading to bed—neither had slept well the night before, and were still two of the earliest risers in the lodge house. Once they were upstairs and away from the prying eyes of the other boys, Squirt mustered her quickly fleeing courage, turned on her heel to face Crutchie, and kissed him.

The blonde boy was still standing, stunned, as the dark-haired girl pulled back and bolted into the bathroom, muttering about ‘stupid dares’ the whole time. He could muster no reply, couldn’t even figure out what he was thinking at that moment—if he was at all.

Numbly, he drifted out and up to the little hideaway Jack had created on the roof years before, staring up at the winter stars, ignoring the bitter wind. He didn’t really know what to make of that moment, but finally decided that was her response to Race’s dare, but she’d decided not to embarrass either of them in front of the others.

_I’m sure Squirt didn’t mean anytin’ by it,_ he assured himself, not entirely sure why the thought was disappointing to him.


	11. That Ain't News

**“That Ain’t News...”**

_...In Which Glasses Don’t Guarantee Clearer Vision._

* * *

The family atmosphere of the Lodge house and need for Newsies to seem tough and confident led to a bit of a paradoxical situation—they boys (and girl) would all keep an eye on and take care of each other, but they’d _never_ admit it if the other newsie was older than eight or so. Take, for instance, the day Specs lost his glasses...

* * *

_Manhattan, Early Spring 1895_

The twelve year-old-boy tore frantically through the Lodge House, searching for the glasses he was nearly blind without, with some assistance from the other newsies about his age. Still it was no use, and Kaiser, who’d taken over after Bruiser had gotten too old to be a newsie, insisted they leave off the search until that night and line up to get their papes.

Squirt, Jack, and Crutchie walked with Specs, seemingly just trying to cheer him up, but also subtly steering him the right way and keeping him out of incoming traffic. As they waited in line, Specs leaned over to Jack and whispered, “What’s da headline today?”

“_Hundreds Drown after Reina Regenta Rams Gibraltar_,” came the whispered reply. “Looks like some big Spanish cruiser sank and took a lotta people wit’ it.”

“How many—hundreds as in a little over one hundred or as in nearly five or what?” Specs hissed back. “I gotta know how ta spin dis.”

Squirt, who’d just gotten her stack, scanned the story quickly. When Specs reached her, she reported: “Dey say at least four hundred, but the number could rise as dey sort trough da wreckage.”

Specs nodded determinedly, and began carefully making his way to his usual selling spot, waving off the other’s assistance. “Alright. Dat’s sometin’ I can work wit’, at least.”

* * *

All that day, as casually as possible and always from a distance, the other newsies would meander close enough to Specs’ spot to make sure that nothing had happened to their normally-bespectacled friend. However, after the day passed entirely without incident, some of the younger newsies decided it was the perfect opportunity to play a prank on Specs.

It was beautiful in its simplicity: since Specs still hadn’t found his glasses (actually Race had located them upon returning home, but the others convinced him to hold onto them for just a little bit longer), they simply told the tall, skinny boy, that the papers he’d been selling all day came from a batch with mistakes—ones that said only 40 people had been on the ship, rather than the 400 that the others had.

“But we all got our papes at da same time,” he tried to protest, despite his growing fear. What if one of the people he sold to complained—could it be traced back to him? He was lucky not to have been slugged by bigger, rougher customers who thought he’d lied to them.

Squirt shook her head for effect, even though she knew all he could see was a slight blur. “We all noticed da mistakes and went to change our papers in for a fresh batch—Wiesel didn’t want ta, but den we asked him what Pulitzer would think of customers complainin’ about da mistakes an’ he gave in. We didn’t even realize you wouldn’t notice the papes...”

Now his fear was turning to panic, and at a subtle nod from Jack, the mastermind, Race quietly slipped the glasses to where Spec’s hand would fall on them. It was a testament to how upset he was that the boy didn’t even question locating the missing items. He simply jammed them on his face and checked the one paper he’d been unable to sell.

It took his brain a few seconds to process that, contrary to what he’d been told, the article listed the correct 400, not 40, and when he finally grasped what had happened, he looked up to see that all of his friends had fled the room, though he could hear them stifling laughter as they tore through the halls.

“Just you guys wait—I’m gonna get youse back for dis!”

The latest prank war was on!


	12. End Up Sneezin'

**“End Up Sneezin’...”**

_...In Which Squirt Turns Out to Have a Hidden Talent._

* * *

_Manhattan, Late Winter 1896_

It never failed—at least once a winter, usually in the dreary days where January gave way to February with no respite from the bitter bold and dismal sleet in sight, the Lodge House had a new resident: that year’s cold, which took it’s time to get to know each and every boy (and girl) personally. Normally, the end result was nothing more than an inconvenience and _maybe_ a day of not selling, but sometimes the simple cold turned into something not so simple.

Such was the case that February that Squirt was twelve. The cold morphed into something with a mild fever and occasional nausea. They didn’t dare go to a doctor, for fear they couldn’t afford treatment, though they would’ve braved it if it had gotten any worse. Fortunately, it stayed in the ‘mildly-incapacitating-and-extremely-uncomfortable-but-not-life-threatening’ zone, and so treatment was in the hands of those who had already had the mystery bug and recovered.

Squirt had been one of the first sick and was the first better, so she did what she could for those who hadn’t yet recovered. She quickly became the favorite ‘nurse’, since she’d actually taken the time to think through what about her own treatment had helped, combining it with things she knew about how other illnesses affected individual newsies.

For instance, Crutchie’s bum leg had a tendency to hurt whenever he had a fever, so Squirt made sure to save some of the cool cloths for the affected limb, while Kaiser tended to lose his voice every time he had a cold, so in absence of tea, she heated up some water with a little salt in it for a gargle.

She kept exploring, experimenting, and caring for her downed ‘brothers’ and by the time the last few had come down with that year’s bug, the average recovery time had been cut in half by Squirt’s effort, and a new half-joke, half-serious saying was going through the lodge House: “Our little sister’s got healin’ hands!”


	13. If You Can Find Her

**“If You Can Find Her...”**

_...In Which Revenge Is Sweet Indeed._

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer 1897_

By the time she was thirteen, Squirt didn’t really participate in the infrequent prank wars unless specifically targeted. Those who’d grown up with her and knew of her creativity in retaliation internally celebrated the reprieve and didn’t dare drag her in, but sometimes the newer boys had to learn that lessen the hard way. That year, Kid Blink was the ignorant unfortunate.

Squirt started, dumbfounded, at where her other change of clothes should’ve been—only to find they’d been removed and replaced with a dress. As she glowered at the offending garment, trying to figure out who would dare, Kid Blink causally strolled past and nonchalantly nodded to her. “Mornin’ _Skirt_.”

All other newsies in earshot tensed, half-expecting Squirt to tackle him and start punching then and there. Though it clearly took effort, Squirt managed to keep a hold of her temper, already planning her revenge as she glanced around, deciding who to recruit. For plans as elaborate as hers were, she’d need allies.

Kid Blink knew not what he’d unleashed.

* * *

The next morning, Squirt carefully positioned herself in Blink’s blind spot before she began humming a sing-song nonsense tune that she knew he despised. He whirled to glare at her, and she smiled sweetly, having stopped humming, only for Crutchie, now standing on the target’s other side, took up the tune in a whistle. Blink turned to the blonde, who grinned, nodding to where Squirt had been. By the time Blink had turned back around, the girl was gone, though a small pebble launched from the sling-shot Snipes had once given her stung the back of his neck as a final, literal parting shot.

Over the next three days, the same pattern of events played itself out constantly, each time with a different boy helping her. It seemed like she’d recruited all of the other newsies against him. As mild as her revenge seemed, He realized the only way to prevent that annoying song from plaguing him was to keep his one good eye on Squirt at all times—a very exhausting prospect.

Finally, he cornered the girl, and ‘surrendered’ in the prank war: “Look, I’m sorry ‘bout da dress. Will you please stop already?”

Squirt just stared at him for a moment, face blank, and he was terrified that she’d say ‘no’ and take up that song again. Instead, she punched him in the arm, smirked and said, “Finally, you tink ta ask. Truce?”

Blink sighed in relief as both spat in their hands before shaking on it. “Truce,” he agreed.


	14. Nobody Told the Horse

**“Nobody Told the Horse...”**

_...In Which Race Loses More Than His Money._

* * *

_Manhattan, Spring1898_

“Why do you keep goin’ dere, Race? You always lose.” Fourteen-year-old Squirt looked at her friend in puzzlement, with honestly no idea how he found losing so much money appealing enough to keep doing it.

Race seemed to fumble for words for a bit, before just shrugging. “It’s not sometin’ I can really explain, Squirt. I guess you’ll just have to see for yourself.”

The other newsie caught his meaning and backed up quickly, raising her hands defensively. “No, I’m not _dat_ curious, Race. Besides, I ain’t got da money ta spare...”

Nevertheless, Race wouldn’t let the matter drop, taking her by the arm and dragging her with him to the racetrack once both their bags were empty of papers. Squirt adamantly refused to spend her own money on something as uncertain as a horse race, so Race split the money he’d intended to use with his friend.

Once he explained the process of betting—as far as how to actually place her bet and pick up her winnings, if there were any—he noticed she was still frowning at the change in her gloved hand. He knew she wasn’t comfortable with taking it, as she’d already tried to return it, but even having one more ally in regards to his hobby might keep some of the other boys off of his back.

“But how do you know which horse ta bet on?”

Race tried to launch into a complicated explanation of his system of tips and rumors about the different riders, trainers, and horses, but Squirt interrupted him, her face twisted with a grimace. “So, in odder words, you guess.”

Before Race could protest e most certainly did _not_ guess, Squirt had wandered up to the window, chosen a name from the list, and placed her bet. The afternoon’s contest was on!

* * *

By th end of the day, neither had phenomenal success, though Squirt did end up with a dollar or so more than she’d started with, faring better than Race, who’d lost every time. Race was more than a little humiliated, and he couldn’t deny his relief as Squirt delivered her assessment:

“I still don’t see why you like it; it wasn’t much fun. I don’t think I wanna go back, Race.”

Race breathed an internal sigh of relief, but kept from expressing it aloud. “If dat’s how you feel, Squirt. Your loss.” _My gain._


	15. Someone Sweet Passin' By

**“Someone Sweet Passin’ By...”**

_...In Which Romeo Has Yet Another Juliet._

* * *

_Manhattan, Fall 1898_

“Whoever said dat spring is da season of love’s never seen Elizabeth Mayfair under fallin’ autumn leaves...”

By now, most of the newsies in the Lodge House simply tuned out Romeo’s attempts at being poetical, and none bothered to learn the girls’ names, but that didn’t ever deter the amorous teen.

“Hey, Squirt!”

The fourteen-year-old paused on the way up the stairs, turning back to the boy who’d called. “What?”

“It’s jus’ dat—well, you _are_ a girl. Is dere sometin’ special I can do ta get her ta give me da time of day?” He could tell Squirt was about to turn away, and he tried to turn pleading brown eyes on her. “Dis one is different, I swears! She’s my everyhtin’, and if I don’t win her heart, den I might not makes it.”

Squirt rolled her eyes and again tried to move away from the most persistent of her ‘brothers’, but Romeo kept begging. “I’m love sick, Squirt! Ain’t you da one who helps us when we’re sick? Can’t you take pity on a sufferin’ soul?”

The dark-haired girl’s eyes rolled heavenward, though whether she was beseeching the divine for more patience or for inspiration, she alone could say. “If I say yes, will dis be da las’ time?”

“Dere won’t need to be a nu’der one after Lizzie makes me complete!”

In spite of herself, Squirt relented, coming back down the stairs and taking Romeo out of earshot of the others. It was starting to get harder to hide her true gender from customers, and even some of her brothers were starting to treat her a little differently, as if they could no longer see her as just ‘one of the guys’. She’d combatted the trend by talking and acting tougher, so this bit of advice, which would require explaining a girl’s mentality to Romeo, was best not done in the general company if she wanted to maintain or improve the tenuous status quo.

* * *

“Youse all gonna be jealous of me, guys—cause I’m tellin you, she’s the most beautiful girl in da world, an I’m ‘bout to win her over.”

It was two days later, and Romeo was in rare from. Squirt had only just made it home, but she could tell he’d been going on like this for a while.

“Yes sir, my Madeline Greene is da sweetest, prettiest girl in da whole city of New York—ow!”

The befuddled newsie watched as Squirt kept walking past, calmly heading up the stairs as if she hadn’t just walloped him—pretty hard—on the back of the head as she passed.

“What was dat for?”


	16. Start out Sweatin'

**“Start Out Sweatin’...”**

_...In Which Healing Hands Are in Great Demand_

* * *

_Manhattan, Early Spring 1899_

_“Nuttin’ chills an’ kills da way a fever does.”_

It was a saying not isolated to the Manhattan Lodge House, but brought to it from the poorest areas of New York by boys that knew all too well the truth behind it. Many had lost at least some family to the sicknesses that had swept through and decimated their neighborhoods. Thus, when an unknown illness accompanied by a high fever began its steady march through the Lodge House, there were a lot of nervous newsies in Manhattan.

Jack was the first to come down with it, and by the time he recovered, Specs, Race and Mush were sick as well, and all affected newsies were kept away from their ‘brothers’ until they were recovered. There was only one newsie in the whole house that was allowed to break the quarantine rule—the now fifteen-year-old Squirt, who’d helped with nearly all ‘doctorin’ an’ nursin’’ since her knack for the skill was first discovered. She still had to go out and sell during the day time, but as soon as she finished her day’s work, she made her way right to the impromptu-sickbay and set to work.

Jack was worried for the girl, worried that she’d come down with the fever herself, as did sometimes happen when she took care of her sick friends. It seemed likely to happen this time, since Squirt seemed to be growing more and more exhausted every day she spent with her patients. Figuring that carrying for three at once might be a bit more than her ‘healing hands’ could deal with, he offered to help, since he was one of the few who could go with her without fear of getting sick himself. Maybe he was more right than he knew, because Squirt actually accepted the offer of help.

* * *

It soon became clear to him why Squirt seemed so exhausted—she stayed up most, if not all, of the night with her patients.

“If you keep goin’ like dis, you’ll get sick, too!” The current leader of the Manhattan newsies exclaimed.

Squirt just kept moving between her three patients, lingering the longest by Mush, who was currently the sickest and the weakest. “I know, but I take so long ta sell my papes, dat if I don’t stay up wit’ dem, I barely have any time ta take care of dem like dey need.” She fell silent for a bit, before slowly admitting, “I—I might not go out to da line, tomorrow. I keep thinkin’ dat maybe, if I spent da whole day takin’ care of dem, dey’d get better faster.”

He’d never really seen this side of his friend before, and felt like he’d been given a glimpse into the caring side she rarely showed. “Maybe you don’t have ta do quite dat. Jus’ take half as much, and I’ll help you cover da nex’ day’s expenses. Dat way you don’t spend nearly so long out dere, but you don’t lose a whole day’s sellin’. Now wouldja jus’ sit down an’ rest for a second?”

Reluctantly Squirt did, but she didn’t really give him an indication of whether or not she’d take his offer. When she broke the silence, it was on a different, completely unexpected topic. “Wouldja really go to Santa Fe if you gots da money?”

He’d been talking about his plan for a few months, now, but Squirt usually left the room when he did. “I ain’t stickin’ round here, dat’s for sure. Da city air’s a killer, make’s people sick—people like us,” he said, with a nod to the three boys sleeping fitfully a few feet away. “Out west, it’s da o’dder way roun’—da air make you feels better, makes you stronger.”

“Maybe so, but I don’t think I can jus’ leave,” Squirt said at last, not looking at him.

“Yeah? An’ why would dat be?”

The girl simply shrugged and replied in a matter-of-fact tone: “New York’s where home is, where my family is. ‘Sides, if all da people strong enough to survive the lickin’ dis place gives ‘em leave an’ head out west like you, who’ll be left to take care of da sick ones not strong enough to leave?”

Jack looked over at his friend, a thought occurring to him. “So, youse wants ta be a doctor or sometin’?”

“Dey don’t lets girls be doctors, Jack. But I don’ know...I kinda like de idea of bein’ a nurse or sometin’ like dat.” Silence stretched between them for a while until Squirt broke it again. “I can’t keep goin’ on like dis forever, you know. Soon, it’ll be pretty hard to keep pretendin’ I’m a guy, and anyways, nobody stays a newsie forever. Den I’m going ta have ta go out an’ actually be a _girl_.”

In a different frame of mind, he might’ve laughed at the comically exaggerated expression of disgust on his fellow newsie’s face, but Jack was in a somber mood at the thought of things changing so drastically. Squirt had been a fixture of the lodge house before he ever arrived, despite the fact she was younger than he, and the thought of her _not_ being there—of not being Squirt—was enough to kill the laugh in his throat.


	17. Those Kids and Me

**“Those Kids and Me...”**

_...In Which New Faces Appear in Line._

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer, 1899_

One July morning, Squirt woke up early to see that someone had already beaten her to being the first one up—Crutchie’s bed was empty. She glanced around and noticed the window that led to Jack’s rooftop retreat was open and the ladder pulled down. Assuming that’s where her friend was, she wandered over, but at the sound of two voices conversing, she froze, hoping not to be noticed as she eavesdropped.

“...Plantin’ crops, splittin’ rails for fences, swappin’ tales aroun’ da fire—except Sunday: nobody works on Sunday’s dere...”

So, Jack was talking about Santa Fe again, was he?

“Soon, you ain’t got friends, you gots family, and dey never wants you ta leave!”

_You already got dat here, ya big idiot!_

“Nobody worries about no gimp leg in Santa Fe, you jus’ hop a palomino—you ride in style!”

“Picture me, ridin’ in style!”

“I bet a few months of clean air, you could toss dat crutch for good!”

Squirt felt two blows to the gut land at once: Jack was planning’ to take Crutchie away with him, and he was telling him that he could fully recover if he went. If that was a false hope, Jack was the cruelest person alive. But if it was true...could she be so selfish as to insist Crutchie stay when leaving could give him the very thing he wanted the most?

“We could work da land, chase after da sun—we could swim in da Rio Grande jus’ because we want to!”

“Watch me stand! Watch me run...” Crutchie voice trailed off, as if sharing Squirt’s fear that this wonderful day dream would do nothing more than break his heart.

“Hey, Hey!” Jack’s voice was softer, more concerned. “We’s a family, remember? Would I let you down?”

“No.”

“Yeah—no way! Just hold on; we’ll go together. Jus’ hold on until we get to Santa Fe, my brother.”

Squirt turned away at that point, still unsure about how she felt about what she’d just learned. What would she do if Crutchie left with Jack? And, if he wanted to go, could she stop him?

* * *

In line that day, Squirt stood next to Crutchie, as she normally did, but for once, both were silent instead of their normal animated chatter. Crutchie seemed lost in thought, and Squirt began to seriously fear that he would take Jack’s offer. Of course, she couldn’t ask if that’s what he as thinking about without revealing that she’d listened to a private conversation that morning.

She watched with mild interest as a new boy in line tried to argue with Wiesel—like that was going to work—and snorted in disdain when this ‘Davey’ turned down Jack’s offer of help. Dignity was one thing, but you couldn’t eat your pride, especially not if you had a little brother relying on you.

In the end, it was that little brother who convinced Davey to work with Jack that day, and the newsies soon dispersed.

* * *

It was a decent day’s selling—nothing spectacular, but she did alright considering the headline gave her squat to work with—and she was arriving back at the Lodge House just as it got dark. To her surprise, Crutchie was pacing in the living room, looking worried, though everyone else seemed to already be upstairs.

When he saw her, Crutchie limped towards quirt as fast as he could. “Dere you are!” he called, obviously relieved. “Have you seen Jack and da two new kids?”

“Jus’ a couple of times today—our paths crossed twice while sellin’,” Squirt replied, confused. “Why? Sometin’ wrong?”

“Snyder was pokin’ his nose roun’ here earlier,” Crutchie said, still obviously trying to calm down. “When you an’ Jack didn’t come back in, I thought he mighta got youse.”

Squirt laid a reassuring hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I never saw da guy, he must’ve moved on long ago. An’ Jack’s too good to be caught by dat weasel again—you’ll see. Probably hid out at Metta’s for a while—ain’t dat where he goes when Snyder turns up?”

Crutchie still didn’t seem to have stopped worrying, but just then, three voices were heard outside: Jack and the new boys. Squirt put out a hand, stopping the blonde boy from charging for the door to reprimand their errant leader.

“...get home for dinner. You can come if you want, Jack, our mom and Dad...”

Jack muttered something that sounded like polite refusal, and the other two newsies drew back, afraid to be caught spying.

“Dey’s gots a family? A dad _and_ a mom?” Crutchie muttered, half in awe. “Dey’re two lucky guys, den.”

Squirt could only nod silent agreement as she helped him up the stairs. Was it just her, or was he limping worse than normal?


	18. Seize the Day

**“Seize the Day...”**

_...In Which the Newsies Form a Union._

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer, 1899_

The next day in line, Squirt shared everyone’s shock and dismay at the price hike—they were barely making ends meet as it was! Then came back word that the prices were just as bad at every other stand, and she joined in the dark muttering. Still, it wasn’t likely that the newsies would’ve done anything about the hike, if it weren’t for Jack.

The idea of forming a union was ridiculous, if you thought about rationally, but all of the gathered youth who’d been newsies more than a week weren’t thinking rationally at that point. Davey alone was the voice of reason at the moment, but as Jack answered every one of his arguments, even the cautious new guy was on board, and he helped the unquestioned leader whip the already eager group into a veritable frenzy:

“Pulitzer and Hearst—dey tink we’re nothin’. Are we nothin’?”

“No!” Squirt chorused with the others.

“Pulitzer and Hearst tink dey got us. Do dey?”

“No!” came the reply again as anger turned to triumphant determination—they weren’t beaten, even if they had to fight a war to prove it.

Jack was just getting started: “We don’t need no hats or badges to be a union, we’re one now, and we’re gonna make dem hear us. Can we do it?”

“Yeah!”

And so it went, growing in intensity and enthusiasm. Not even seeing Jack, Davey, and Les get thrown out of the _World’s_ headquarters dampened the rebellious energy or sense of victory. The crowd made their way to their secondary shelter—the local deli—to discuss the next steps they’d take, still shouting and cheering.

* * *

Due to the excitement, it was hard for Jack to establish any kind of order on the rowdy bunch, but eventually he made them see that they had to spread the word to the newsies in every borough for the strike to have the necessary effect, and the assignments were dispersed.

“Romeo, Squirt—you guys go to da Bronx and get Smalls and her group on board.”

“Right!” the two responded in unison, though personally, Squirt wasn’t sure sending Romeo to talk to the only girl who lead a faction of the newsies was Jack’s wisest move. _Den again, maybe dat’s why he’s sending me—to keep Romeo in line._

Things were going smoothly enough, until Jack asked for volunteers to go to Brooklyn and silence fell for the first time that day. Squirt understood most of her brothers being frightened of Spot, who was now the head newsie over there, but she and Crutchie were still on good terms with their friend, who they’d seen several times since they’re first encounter all those years ago. She knew Jack wouldn’t send Crutchie all that way on a bum leg, so she was about to volunteer when Romeo grabbed her arm.

“Please don’t, Squirt—I’m gonna need you to have my back in da Bronx. Smalls may live up to her name, but I’ve heard she’s decked guys jus’ for lookin’ at her wrong. You aren’t gonna leave me alone wit’ her, are ya?”

Against her better judgement, Squirt held her tongue and let someone else take the Brooklyn assignment.

“Why’s everyone afraid of Brooklyn?”

At the new voice, everyone turned to see a woman—okay, a _girl_—with a notepad and pencil looking around.

Crutchie drifted over to Squirt, whisperin’ “Ain’t’ dat da skirt Romeo an’ Jack tried to hit on yesterday mornin’?”

As the conversation with the reporter wound on, most of the newsies drifted off to their various assignments, but Squirt found herself lingering a little, caught in an odd maelstrom of emotions: on the one hand, there was her usual smug superiority at having escaped being turned into a skirt-wearin’-doll, but on the other hand, the way this newcomer blended a brash bluntness with manners and grace, giving the air of self-sufficient elegance began to stir something akin to jealousy in the young newsie’s heart. It wasn’t likely _she’d_ ever be able to strike that same balance, and so she wanted to turn her nose up at it.

...But she couldn’t deny her grudging admiration of this Katherine all the same...


	19. Still Our Brothers

**“Still Our Brothers...”**

_...In Which One Battalion Is Insufficient._

* * *

_The Bronx, Summer, 1899_

“An’ so, if we wants Pulitzer an’ Hearst ta take us seriously, den all da newsies in da city have ta rally togedder tomorrow. If we do dat, den dey won’t have a choice but to pull da prices back down to 50 cents a hundred,” Squirt finished, having had to do most of the talking since Romeo had held his tongue after being shut down romantically by Smalls in the first minute of their discussion. Personally, Squirt thought he was lucky not to have been slugged and so had taken up the dialogue.

When the other girl didn’t respond for a bit, Squirt dared to ask. “So, Smalls, are you an’ da Bronx in or not?”

“Sounds like Jack’s got a pretty good plan,” Smalls replied, which wasn’t an answer. “What’s Spot an’ the lot in Brooklyn think?”

“Dey’re getting’ asked right now,” Squirt replied, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. There’d been a rumor circulating through newsie circles about Spot and Smalls, but whether this hesitancy had to do with that or with the fact that most newsies looked to the head of Brooklyn to set the tone for the city, Squirt honestly couldn’t say.

“I’ll check in wit’ him tonight, den,” Smalls answered. “If Brooklyn’s in, da Bronx won’t be far behin’ dem.”

Squirt wanted to protest, but knew that it wouldn’t do much good—it might even hurt their cause—so she dragged a still-moping Romeo away with her. Personally, she wasn’t as worried as some of the others in Manhattan. She and Crutchie were confident that Brooklyn would come. Spot had promised them, after all, and he wasn’t the type to break his word.

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer, 1899_

Spot had broken his word—Brooklyn wasn’t coming.

Squirt didn’t want to believe it, but Manhattan stood alone. Like the others, she fell into despair at the thought, and wanted nothing to do with Davey’s constant pressing, the insistence that they had to keep going. Jack joined in, but she still tuned them out.

_Let da dreamers keep on dreamin, the strike got killed before it ever did anythin’._

Then Crutchie joined in, still somehow so full of hope, and Squirt couldn’t let him stand alone. She stood, followed quickly by Snipes, Specs, and the others. Maybe they’d fight alone, but they would fight!

The triumphant moment lasted just that—a moment—and then it came crashing down as the bulls and strike breakers attacked. Squirt was no slouch in a Lodge House-style scrap, but like her brothers, was outclassed by the sheer brutality of their attackers. He first and primary thought was to get to Crutchie—who’d never been much one for fights and had to deal with his bum leg on top of it all.

Before she was more than halfway there, one of the bulls stopped her by wrapping a meaty arm across her chest, and she saw his piggish eyes light up with realization and malicious intent. She kicked, struggled, and bit, finally managing to free herself when Mush and Snipes came to her aid, but then found her two brothers dragging her away, out of the fight, by her arms rather than helping her get to the blonde newsie.

“Squirt,” Snipes hissed, “Youse got ta get outta here—dey’re startin’ to figure out you’re a girl, an you know what dey’ll do ta you.”

“But Crutchie—”

Mush only gripped her arm tighter as the two boys backed out of the brawl, dragging her all the way. “Dere ain’t nuttin’ you can do for him if you get nabbed, too. He’d never forgive himself if you get hurt. ‘Sides, you know Jack won’t let nuttin’ happen to Crutchie—you know dat.”

Just then, sharp cries of pain floated above the grunts of the fight, and Squirt redoubled her efforts, to no avail. She was dragged all the way back to the Lodge house, shouting all the way:

“Crutchie! Let me go, Dey’re hurtin’ him! CRUTCHIE!”


	20. Brave Battalion

**“Brave Battalion...”**

_...In Which Squirt Has Had Enough._

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer, 1899_

Heart hammering, Squirt slipped close to the hulking building under the cover of the falling twilight, the taste of bile on the back of her tongue as she saw the dreaded sign: The Refuge. This is where they’d taken Crutchie—he was somewhere inside.

She’d come here—the one place every newsie prayed to never see the inside of—rather than stay at the deli with the others, licking their wounds. It’d taken some effort to slip away without her brothers noticing, especially Mush and Snipes, who’d stuck pretty close since dragging her away from the bulls. She understood they were just trying to protect her, but she had to see Crutchie, to see if he was okay, if there was anything she could do. A part of her had even entertained the thought she could bust him out.

But now she was here.

She could barely get herself close unseen; it’d be nigh on impossible to get the blonde boy away unnoticed, especially if he was hurt...that thought triggered the memory of his screams, and Squirt had to resist the urge to put her hands over her ears. Still, she wasn’t leaving until he knew that she and the others wouldn’t stop fighting until they got him back.

After sneaking around a bit, Squirt realized that all of the boys were kept on the second floor or above, so she found a crate that allowed her to grab the fire escape’s bottom rung, and pulled herself up to the first window. “Hey, anybody in here?” she whispered as loudly as she dared, not knowing how closely the boys were guarded.

“Who’re you?”

Squirt blinked in surprise as the face of a small boy—couldn’t have been more than seven or eight—was thrust into view. “I’m Squirt—one of da newsies ‘round here.”

Before she could ask about Crutchie the tyke interrupted. “One of da ones who’s strikin’? We heard Snyder talkin’ ‘bout it before he went out today. Did he really stop youse?”

“No, he jus’ made us mad,” Squirt replied automatically, though, at that point, she didn’t know if she was talking for the whole of the Lodge House or only herself. “Listen, Snyder would’ve brought one of our friends back wit’ him today. Have you seen him? He’s bout my age, has blonde hair an’ goes by—”

“Crutchie?” Came the tyke’s second interruption—a much more welcome one this time. “Yeah, he’s here. He’s three beds over from this one.”

For the first time since that terrible afternoon, Squirt felt the beginnings of hope. “Can I see him?”

The little boy’s face fell. “Well, see, he can’t really walk dat well....dey took his crutch, so he’s kinda stuck where he is and...” the child’s voice trailed off, apparently unwilling to share some kind of bad news.

Squirt was having none of that, though. “And what?” she demanded.

“Well, he didn’t want any of youse who came by to know, but dey hurt him pretty badly. I don’t know if he could walk now even if he had his crutch.”

Squirt had to take a moment to steady her breath. Truth be told, she’d expected something this bad, but she thought she’d at least see it. Somehow, this was worse, because it was all left up to her too-fearful imagination. “Wait, he didn’t want us to know...so, he was expectin’ us to come ‘round for him?”

“Yeah! He said that his friends would be comin’ to see if dey could help him at all. He said at least Jack an’ Squirt would come, an’ maybe da o’dders if Jack couldn’t stop ‘em. He even gave me a letter to pass along to Jack when he came!”

A letter for Jack, but not for her. Even after years of knowing how close the two boys were, that still hurt. “Well, pass it here and I’ll take it to him.”

The boy blinked in surprise. “But he’s already come! I already gave it to ‘im. Then he just left. Didn’t even say anything for me to pass along to Crutchie, so I didn’t tell him Jack had come.”

“Smart kid,” Squirt muttered darkly, wondering what on the face of God’s sweet earth could’ve gotten into Jack—didn’t he know how much Crutchie needed him right now? He’d left _him _the letter after all! “Well, you tell him Squirt came round, and I ain’t stoppin’ until this strike is won an’ he’s back wit’ us where he belongs. You tell him I—” but really, what could she say to make her friend, her _first_ friend believe that everything would work out when he was hurt and trapped in this hellhole?

“He’s real lucky,” the tyke muttered, still staring at the newsie in something like wide-eyed awe. “He’s got friends—a family—out dere.”

Squirt took a moment to take in the dirty, pinched face before her, mottled with old and new bruising, with cold cynicism and the last vestiges of youthful optimism doing battle in too-large blue eyes. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Michael,” came the startled answer.

“Well, Mikey, you gots family out here, too. All of us—newsies, factory kids, you boys here in da refuge, we’se a family. Dis strike, it ain’t jus’ for da newsies, it’s for all da kids in New York whose rights are bein’ trampled on. We’ll do everything we can to make things better, even here. An’ we won’t take no for an answer!”

For the first time, a grin split Michael’s face, but it lasted only a second as he heard something behind him. “Someone’s coming! You better scram, Squirt. Don’t worry—I’ll tell Crutchie what you said, all of it.”

Squirt was forced to leave then, and though what she’d told Michael had come to her in that moment, she realized it was what they should be doin’. She’d have to tell Jack an’ Davey that the strike was bigger than jus’ them...

No...no, there was someone _else_ she needed to talk to, first.

* * *

_Brooklyn, Summer, 1899_

“Let go of me, you numbskulls! I gotta see Spot! Get off!”

Spot recognized that voice, but he was surprised by the venom in it—what had gotten into Squirt? Figuring he better intervene before she gave any of his newsies black eyes or broken noses, the head of Brooklyn rounded the corner towards sounds of the confrontation, and was startled by how disheveled Squirt was: her outfit torn and dirtier than normal, her hat knocked askew, what looked to be fresh bruising on her jaw, and a look of absolute fury in her eyes. He’d heard about the strike breaker’s attack from earlier that day, but he’d figured the Manhattan cowards had all fled before taking any bad hits.

He was about to learn how wrong he was.

As soon as the dark-haired girl locked eyes with Spot, she wrenched her arm free and stormed right up to him, trembling in anger. “Where da hell were you today, Spot?” Before he could answer, the Manhattan newsie pressed on with her tirade. “‘Cause I’ll tell you where you _weren’t_. You weren’t helpin’ your brudder’s in da strike. You weren’t standin’ by your friends like you promised you would.”

_Like you promised you would._ Was she really calling on the promise he’d made when they first met? So the strike got busted up, was that really his fault? And why did she even care that much about it? No, something else had happened, Squirt was angrier than he’d ever seen her before, and that simple realization set Spot on edge, and he began to expect the worse. Before he spoke, he gestured for the other two newsies in the alley to get lost, which they did quickly, freeing him to speak openly with Squirt.

“All I promised was dat I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you or Crutchie,” he countered once they were alone. “And dat I would keep your secret, which I _have_.”

“Yeah, you jus’ haven’t been as good about keepin’ da first part of dat promise,” Squirt shot back, her anger not lessened in the slightest. “Or do you think dat someone like Crutchie can hold his own in a brawl against full-grown strike breakers an’ police bulls?”

Spot’s stomach twisted in dread—though he’d never let on, he had a protective streak for the smaller, weaker newsies, and none more so than his first two friends outside of Brooklyn. “How bad is he hurt?” he asked quietly, now having guessed why Squirt had dared come all the way here and risk the wrath of the other Brooklyn newsies.

“I don’t really know,” she shot back, every word dripping with venom, “‘cause they busted up his leg so bad he couldn’t get over to da window to talk to me when I snuck over to da Refuge to see him.”

_The Refuge_. Even in Brooklyn, those two words were the sound of doom—there wasn’t a newsie in the city who hadn’t heard stories or rumors. And that’s where they’d taken Crutchie...

Squirt saw anger enter the short, stocky boy’s eyes, and trusted that her trip here had not been in vain. If she knew Spot, Brooklyn would come on board with the strike now to avenge the wrongs inflicted upon their Manhattan brothers, and the other boroughs would fall into line behind them.

“Some kid named Davey came by earlier wit’ a new idea for da strike,” Spot admitted at last, the fury in his eyes echoed by the tension in his voice. “Sounds like I may want to reconsider my answer. He never mentioned how badly it had gone...”

“Probably didn’t want to show weakness,” Squirt admitted, softening a little as she knew her mission had succeeded, but unable to fully relax until Crutchie was back where he belonged, “he’s new.”

Spot took a step closer to his friend and lay a hand on her shoulder with a gentleness he would’ve denied in any other company. “You tell dat Davey dat Brooklyn will be dere, and all da o’dders to, even if I had to drag dem.”

This time, he didn’t say ‘I promise’, but Squirt heard it anyway.

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer, 1899_

Setting up the meeting took the rest of the next day, but by the afternoon, Davey returned with the news that Jack had been found and was back on board with them. By the time that Spot had showed up, bringing representatives from the whole city in his wake, an air of determined triumph had returned to the gathered youths.

...An air severely dampened by Jack’s apparent defection.

When they saw the man slip money into Jack’s hand, Spot turned to Squirt with nothing short of accusation in his expression, which only faded marginally when he saw the shock and betrayal in hers. It was clear that Jack was the only one in Manhattan who felt like giving up, but without its first leader, just how long could the strike last?

For her part, Squirt knew that Spot was only a few seconds from walking out and leaving Manhattan alone and unsupported again. She only had a few moments to convince him to stay, so had to choose her words carefully.

“If we give up now, den we’ll get Crutchie back,” she said at last, and was rewarded by seeing determination return to her friend’s eyes, but a glance at Davey revealed the other leader of the strike was out of ideas as he stood in the shambles of the meeting. The same question, then, was one everyone’s mind:

_What do we do now? _


	21. Once And For All

**“Once And For All...”**

_...In Which All Is Well Again._

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer, 1899_

So Spot was miraculously still on board with the strike, meaning they might not lose the other newsies in the city, but without a plan on how to proceed, the movement was once again gasping out what could’ve been a dying breath. Desperate, Squirt told the others about her trip to the Refuge and her talk with little Mikey, and while it seemed to give her brothers new determination, they still had no idea how to make good on her promise to the kid.

And that was when Katherine showed back up, with Jack in tow.

When she saw the other woman again, Squirt was struck with the same odd mix of superiority and envy as she had been that first time in the deli, but tried to shove that aside in favor of gratitude that Katherine had been able to get Jack back on board—and come up with an idea that fit in with the strike’s new ideology.

That didn’t soften her feelings towards _Jack _in the slightest, however. The supposed leader of Manhattan had apparently given up on Crutchie twice now, hadn’t had a message for the younger boy, and apparently put more stock in the opinions and ideas of two newcomers, Davey and Katherine, then on his newsie brothers.

She’d help them print and distribute the papers Katherine had drafted, and she wouldn’t stop fighting until they’d won, but she’d never be able to fully respect Jack Kelly again.

* * *

Things went well at first—no one got any sleep, but none of them minded. Thanks to Spot’s continued support, they had newsies from every borough delivering the ‘special’ papes all over the city while half the Manhattan crew (mostly the ‘old guard,’ as those who’d joined as little kids were sometimes called) backed Jack as he made his final assault on Pulitzer’s office.

Squirt stood below in the street with the others, flanked by Snipes and Mush again (probably in case she tried something stupid), trying to swallow back fearful visions in which Jack’s new resolve wavered yet again. The strike couldn’t take another setback like that.

Then ‘Captain Jack’ reappeared, flanked by Pulitzer and—

“Hey, is dat da governor?” Race asked from behind Squirt, squinting up at the third figure in disbelief.

Sure enough, it was Governor Roosevelt, and it appeared that news of the strike had reached all the way up to him, and he’d decided to intervene on their behalf! Most of what he said was lost in Squirt’s swimming mind as she tried to process that one single fact—that they had the _governor_ on their side—when a dark carriage pulled up, and opened its doors, revealing a miracle.

At that moment, Squirt didn’t care if her actions revealed her secret, she charged ahead of the rest of the newsies, and was the first to reach Crutchie, all but tackling him in her hug. The others surrounded them then, keeping the tow-headed boy from being knocked over by the dark-haired girl, and in the chaos of their cheers and greetings, he was the only one who could hear the single muffled sob that got past her guard as she clung to him.

Squirt heard the rest of the results of the strike from right beside Crutchie, allowing him to lean on her until they found him another crutch. It was clear his injuries from the bull’s attack were only half-healed, so triumph was mingled with worry in Squirt’s heart, but to see the blonde newsie grinning so broadly helped to banish worry, if only for the day.

As the crowds dispersed, Jack came down to join the others, and Squirt helped Crutchie closer to their older friend. Jack sized up Crutchie with worried eyes—eyes of someone else who’d seen the inside of the Refuge—as he embraced him and welcomed him home, then, as if feeling embarrassed he took a few steps back and awkwardly stammered: “Well, with the strike settled, I should probably be hittin’ the road.”

Squirt felt Crutchie tense as he leaned on her, and she glanced at her first friend, wondering yet again if Crutchie would try to go with Jack, or how he’d react if left behind. To both of their surprise, it was Davey who spoke up first.

“I don’t get it: what’s Santa Fe got that New York ain’t? Tarantulas?”

_Exactly!_ Squirt shouted mentally, trying to ignore that, yet again, Jack was putting more stock in the words of the new guys than the wishes of his long-time friends.

Katherine then stepped forward and took one of Jack’s hands—a gesture not lost on the gathered newsies. “Or better yet, what’s New York got that Santa Fe ain’t?”

There was something odd in hearing such a prim figure use a word like ‘ain’t’, but it added to the air of brash boldness that Squirt grudgingly admired in the other girl. And hey, if it kept Jack here (and thereby kept Crutchie happy) more power to her.

“New York’s got us,” Crutchie pointed out, taking a few steps forward with Squirt’s help, “an’ we’re family.”

“And you’ve got one more ace up your sleeve,” Katherine insisted, the only one present who didn’t seem worried about Jack’s decision in the slightest—she was utterly convinced of coming victory.

It seemed Jack was too, as he asked with a smirk, “An’ what would dat be?”

“Me,” was the simple, confident reply. “Wherever you go, I’m there, right by your side.”

All present straightened up at such a bold proclamation, and none could resist glancing at Jack to catch his reaction.

“For sure?”

“For sure,” Katherine echoed, in a pretty good imitation of Jack’s lower-class accent.

Squirt couldn’t afterward say what shocked her more at that point—how successful Katherine was in the impression, or the fact that Jack’s answer was to kiss her full on the mouth.


	22. Hawking Headlines

**“Hawking Headlines...”**

_...In Which Tricks of the Trade Are Passed On._

* * *

_Manhattan, Late Summer, 1899_

The strike was well and truly over, and it seemed like Davey and Les would be sticking around for a few weeks, at least—“Until our dad’s arm heals,” Dave admitted when the other newsies in line expressed surprise at seeing the brothers still there. “Someone’s gotta take care of da family, you know?”

They did, and that was presumed to be the end of the matter, but it seemed that was not to be the case. After everyone retrieved their papers, Jack dragged the brothers over to Crutchie and Squirt, who’d been selling within a block of each other ever since Crutchie had gotten back on the streets. “I want you two to keep an eye on Les and train him up good while I work wit’ Davey on a new station. It ain’t da best place for kids, so you guys keep Les wit’ you. Alright?”

It wasn’t alright, and all four other newsies (well, three, Crutchie didn’t ever seem to argue against Jack’s decisions) tried to let their leader know that. “Nothin’ doin’. If dis doesn’t work out after a day or two, we’ll switch it up again, but jus’ give it a try, alright?” Grumbling, they agreed, and it was hard to say who was more upset.

Still, Squirt had to admit that selling was a lot easier with a little one tagging along, and it was kind of impressive how good Les was, and how much he’d already picked up from Jack. “Kinda reminds me of you, or at least, what Bruiser said you were like when you first started,” Crutchie observed at one point in the afternoon.

“Oh, dis kid’s got nothin’ on me,” Squirt shot back, before calling over to the younger newsie: “Hey, Les, come over here. You’re doin’ pretty good wit’ da basics, but hows about I show you some more advanced techniques, yeah?”

* * *

By the time Davey and Jack made it back to the Lodge House, Crutchie, Squirt, and Les had already been there for more than an hour, and the three were laughing as they overlapped each other in recalling the day’s more entertaining attempts to sell papes, both the successful ones and not. Davey was struck by the same sinking feeling he’d had when Jack had first begun to ‘corrupt’ his brother, though this was mixed with a bit of resignation, so long as the kid remembered to keep his mouth shut in front of their patents.

Jack, on the other hand, was beginning to realize that the team up he’d pitched as a ‘dream team’ only that morning might just have been a powerful enough alliance to be the stuff of nightmares.

_What have I done?_


	23. We're Family

**“We’re Family...”**

_...In Which Fresh Wounds Run Deep._

* * *

_Manhattan, Early Autumn, 1899_

_Early to bed, early to rise—jus’ like always,_ Jack thought to himself as he emerged into his cool autumn air of his rooftop retreat to see that Crutchie, who’d pretty much moved up there with him after the strike, was already fast asleep. Knowing his younger friend hadn’t been sleeping well lately, Jack tried to keep the noise down to a minimum as he lay down himself, drifting off to sleep after a hard day of work.

* * *

He was awoken a few hours later by a sound that’d grown too familiar in the past few weeks—Crutchie tossing and crying out in his sleep, in the grips of yet another nightmare. As he had the past few nights, Jack dragged himself over to the other boy and shook his shoulder, trying to rouse him. “Hey, wake up Crutchie—youse jus’ havin’ a nightmare.” He repeated himself two more times, getting a little louder each time, but it didn’t seem like the blonde could hear him.

_Dis is bad_. _He hasn’t had one like dis in a while now._ Jack clenched his fist as the part of his memory he wished he could shut off conspired with his imagination to create ghastly images of what Crutchie might’ve been through in his time at the Refuge. The other newsie never did say, not the Jack was surprised about that, and tried to pretend like everything was fine, but the nightmares alone were proof the Refuge may have released him, but it wasn’t about to let him go.

With a final worried glance at the still-whimpering boy, Jack did the only thing he could think of to do—the only thing that had seemed to work on nights like this. He slipped down the ladder and in through the window to where the others were sleeping, tiptoeing around prone figures until he reached the one he needed. Kneeling down, he reached out and shook a skinny shoulder. “Hey, Squirt. It’s me, Jack.”

Squirt cracked one greyish-blue eye open in a glare, but at least the glare was an alert one, so he pressed on. “It’s Crutchie—it’s happening again.” The glare was instantly replaced with concern, and the dark-haired girl swung quickly out of bed, following him back to the roof.

As they made their way up the ladder, it occurred to Jack, not for the first time, that something about Squirt had changed towards him. The two had butted heads quite often, but there was a mutual respect beneath it all that now seemed to have vanished, and if she ever regarded him with any kind of emotion at all, it was cold resentment.

Now wasn’t the time to worry about that, however—they had a more important job to do. Jack stood aside and let Squirt brush past him and kneel by her friend. She’d known the other newsie longer than he had, and seemed able to make herself heard above the worst of his nightmares, even when Jack couldn’t. He’d long-since guessed she harbored feelings for Crutchie, but he was beginning to suspect that the other newsie returned them.

“Crutchie, it’s me Squirt. It’s okay, you’re home wit’ your family. We’re here, Crutchie—me an’ Jack. Everyone else is downstairs. _You’re safe_, Crutchie. Please, wake up. It’s okay now.”

It wasn’t okay—that was the problem. Still, her stream of reassurances seemed to do the trick and Crutchie finally woke up. They knelt on either side of him, helping him to sit up, though he avoided both their concerned gazes. “Did it happen again?” They didn’t say anything, but their silence was answer enough. “I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to wake youse...”

“Don’t,” Squirt said, actually leaning over and hugging his still-trembling frame. “Don’t you dare think dis is your fault—it ain’t. It’s dat damn Snyder’s. But he can’t hurt you again—he’s gone, and you’re here, and you’re family’s here, too.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, clearing his throat. “It’s jus’ like you said: New York’s got us, and we’re a family.”

He ignore the odd glare Squirt gave him at that, and the two continued such reassurances until Crutchie calmed down and fell back asleep, this time with Squirt stretched out, asleep, beside him. Jack stood and took a few steps back, regard ing the two. Taking care of Crutchie, getting him through the worst of this, obviously took priority, but sooner or later he was going to have to have a serious talk with Squirt, before this cold treatment turned into something worse.


	24. Kick You Halfway to Queens

**“Kick You Halfway to Queens...”**

_...In Which Davey Learns What the Other Already Know._

* * *

_Manhattan, Early Winter, 1899_

Sometimes, it seemed like Davey and Les had always been a part of the newsie family, or at least like they’d been there more than just a couple of months. For the most part, this was a good thing, since it meant the brothers fit right in and were pretty good at sellin’ papes. Other times, it led to some confusion when the others forgot that long-accepted facts had yet to be explained to them.

“...I just don’t get it,” Squirt heard Davey saying as she, Crutchie, and Les (who’d become a regular team now) made their way back to the lodge house one evening. Apparently, it was one of those rare days that Davey and Jack had finished before the ‘power trio’. “I mean, I get that you don’t want Les anywhere near the neighborhoods we’re workin’, and you do mix it up from time to time, but why Squirt and Crutchie with him? I’d think three’s a bit much, right?”

Curious as to what Jack’s answer was, all three returning newsies halted in the doorway, just out of sight, and listened.

“Well, knowin’ dose two, dey ain’t standin’ side-by-side seillin’, but dey’re workin’ da same general area. And anyways, da trio’s kind of a coincidence, since Squirt an’ Crutchie sell together now. Really, I was assignin’ Squirt to keep an eye on Les.”

Apparently, Jack’s answer didn’t quite satisfy the older brother. “That’s what I don’t get—of all the people here, why Squirt? I mean, I got nothin’ against the guy, but it’s clear there’s some kind of beef between you.”

“Squirt’s attitude towards me’s got nothin’ to do wit’ it,” Jack explained. “I jus’ figured her motherin’ instincts or somethin’ made her da bes’ choice.”

_Motherin’ instincts?_ Squirt thought incredulously in almost the same instinct that Davey exclaimed, “Wait—_her?_ You’re tellin’ me Squirt’s a...”

“Girl,” Jack finished after Davey trailed off, apparently still trying to process the new revelation. “You mean you seriously couldn’t tell?”

“I could,” Les whispered from behind Squirt, and it took all of her willpower not to bust out laughing and give away the fact that the three were eavesdropping.

* * *

As entertaining as that moment had been, it had some less-than-enjoyable consequences for Squirt. Whereas before Davey hadn’t seemed to take much notice of her, now he kept fumbling, being awkward, and treating her differently in what she supposed was an attempt at being a gentleman, but just came off a bit stiff, especially to someone who’d been ‘one of the guys’ for most of her life.

As that went on for a few days, Squirt became aware that some of her ‘brothers’ were watching closely, waiting for the show (and placing bets on it, too, if she knew Race), and tried not to indulge them, reminding herself that the brothers wouldn’t be there forever—they’d be back in school soon, surely.

But she reached her breaking point before that happened, and one day she turned on Davey, fists clenched and shoulders tense. “Would you knock it off, already? Yes, I’m a girl! No, you didn’t know! Did it matter? I’m jus’ as capable as any of da boys here, an’ I got more experience den most of dem. I’ve been a newsie for almost as long as I can remember an’ I know da streets of Manhattan like da back of my hand. You don’t need ta protect me, you don’t need ta treat me like I’m some china doll, and youse certainly don’t need ta call me ma’am! Now you go back to treatin’ me—or ignorin’ me—like you did before, and dis will all be forgotten, okay?”

By this point, she’d backed him against the Lodge House wall, despite him standing a head-and-a-half taller than she. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. I got it,” he stammered out at last.

“Good,” she said, smiling sweetly, then turning on her heel and walking away as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Most of the other newsies who’d been watching started to drift away, but Les approached his still-stunned brother with a knowing smirk.

“Coulda warned you,” he said in passing.


	25. Plain-Spoken Know-Nothing

**“Plain-Spoken Know-Nothing...”**

_...In Which Things Are Spoken Which Cannot Be Unsaid._

* * *

_Manhattan, Early Winter, 1899_

Jack had finally had enough, and decided this had gone on too long already. So, a few weeks after the strike, he finally managed to corner Squirt in the Lodge House one night. Quite the feat, considering she seemed to be actively avoiding him.

“Whaddaya want, Cowboy?” she asked, crossing her arms and clearly in a bad mood.

Jack was surprised to hear her use his less common nickname—one that’d been all but abandoned in the wake of the strike, but he didn’t comment on it. “I wanna know what’s goin’ on wit’ you, and why you look like you want to deck me every time you see me.”

“You really don’t want to know,” Squirt mumbled, not meeting his eyes, but not trying to escape. For Crutchie’s sake, she’d put off any kind of fight with Jack, but some things she just couldn’t let go of. “After all, you wouldn’t feel like much of a hero if I told you.”

“Hero? When did I ever call myself—”

“Oh, you didn’t—you jus’ walked around actin’ all triumphant and happy after the strike, and throwin’ orders around like we should still trust you after you kept flip-floppin’ when we most needed a strong leader!” Squirt half-shouted.

Jack frowned—not happy with remembering his less-than-consistent actions during the strike, or the reasons behind them. “Look, none of you realize what it’s like to watch your friends get hurt because you led them into a fight dey weren’t ready for. An’ Pulitzer threatened to throw everyone into da Refuge if I didn’t say what I did at da meeting. I was tryin’ to protect you all.”

“So you took da money and woulda hopped a train to Santa Fe and left us in da lurch with half a battle fought an’ Crutchie, da one who trusted you most and who left a letter for _you,_ in da Refuge waiting for you to come an’ save him? Yeah, some friend, you are, Jack. You only cared about yourself and your own stupid dreams of Santa Fe—you never cared about us!”

That was going too far. “Dat’s not true, dat was never true!” Jack shouted back, growing truly angry. “An’ I wasn’t da only one who wanted to give up—or do you forget dat all of youse were goin’ ta throw in da towel when Spot didn’t show dat first day? It took Davey—a rookie, ta whip up you cowards again, an’ he had less ridin’ on it den we did!”

“Give up on da strike? Maybe,” Squirt admitted, refusing to back down. “But I never gave up on helpin’ Crutchie. An’ it says somethin’ dat da rookie was da one keepin’ it goin when you ran off wit’ your tail between your legs—twice! So who’s da coward?”

When Jack got angry, like so many of us, he let his mouth run ahead of his mind. “Maybe da girl who claims to care so much about Crutchie but doesn’t jus’ ask him out already?”

As Squirt’s face turned alternately purple and red with rage and embarrassment, Jack began to wonder if that last shot was a bit of a low blow, but was distracted from those thoughts by a surprised cough form the doorway behind him. Turning around, the two discovered they were not alone in the room, as they’d assumed. Apparently, Crutchie had come looking for them. How long he’d been there, they didn’t know but it was clear he’d heard more than just that last comment.

As awkward silence fell, Jack felt like apologizing to Squirt, but couldn’t bring himself to do it in that moment...

* * *

...Or any moment, as it turned out. He and Squirt never exploded at each other again after that, and the tension between the two was greatly lessened, but the cold distance that replaced it wasn’t exactly an improvement. What had been said in the argument, and what had been implied, couldn’t be unsaid or erased, even if the two newsies had been inclined to.

Yes, things were changing at the Lodge House, and not all changes could be for the better.


	26. I Ain't Never Planned

**“I Ain’t Never Planned...”**

_...In Which Many Years of Effort Pay Off At Last._

* * *

_Manhattan, Midwinter, 1899_

Crutchie was caught in the middle, and he _hated_ it. Jack and Squirt were the two closest friends he’d ever had, and while they weren’t shouting at each other anymore and seemed to be actively trying _not_ to make him take sides or decide between them, they were drifting away from each other at a steady rate, and thanks to the argument that he’d overheard, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was his fault, or at least, for his sake.

And yet, there was nothing he could do but remain a friend to both....

* * *

Well, maybe something more than a friend, to one. Ever since that Christmas more than half a decade ago, the blonde boy had begun to consider his friend in a different light. He began to notice things about Squirt’s laugh or smile that he hadn’t before, he even dared to think of her as ‘pretty’ (not that he ever said so to her face, fearing her reaction), and, of course, there was the memory of that kiss...

Crutchie’d never dared to say or do anything about his feelings, convincing himself that, should Squirt ever want to step out with a guy, that she wouldn’t have any interest in a gimp-legged bum like him. No one wanted a crip—that was why he’d been on the streets, alone, all those years ago. And once he got too old to be a newsie, what could he do? Where could he go? It was a terrifying question, even without considerin’ wanting a family, and one he didn’t like thinking about.

But if Jack’s outburst was to be believed (and she hadn’t denied it) then Squirt was, for some unknowable reason, interested in _him_. Therefore, just maybe, it was worth the risk. After all, the future didn’t seem so scary when he was spending time with Squirt, so maybe they could figure it out together when the time came. Now that his mind was made up, he just had to find his moment...

* * *

It came a few days later, after another day of the ‘power trio’ workin’ their corners. They sold in the same general area, but far enough from each other that they weren’t competing with each other. Today, Crutchie was the first to get to the bottom of his bag, and, taking a deep breath, he made his way over to where Squirt was getting rid of her last few papes.

When there was a break in passerby’s, leaving the two newsies alone on the corner, Crutchie tried to calm his nerves as he began. “Hey, Squirt?”

“Yeah?” she asked, turning to face him. Those grey-blue eyes held his, and he nearly lost his nerve, but he simply couldn’t stand being in limbo any longer.

“Look, I know you know I overheard what Jack said, an’ I was jus’ wonderin’...was he right?” Crutchie blurted out. Squirt looked trapped, and the tow-headed teen began to fear he’d misread the situation. “‘Cause I ain’t never had da courage to say dis before, but I uh, dat is, you...Since dat Christmas...” he was fumbling, losing his courage and train of thought in the same instant.

It was Squirt who saved the moment—they’d been friends long enough to understand what the other meant, if not what they said. “You really mean it?” she asked, a smile starting where surprise and fear had been only moments before. “‘Cause Jack might’ve been outta place, but he wasn’t wrong...”

Crutchie’s own smile returned at that, and, deciding actions spoke louder (and were easier to understand) than words, he took a step forward, clearly intent on re-creating that Christmas kiss from years before, but Squirt held up a hand to stop him.

The girl quickly rushed to reassure him before he could misunderstand. “Crutchie, right now, for anyone to see—I’m a guy. A kiss right now might raise a few eyebrows, you know?”

Crutchie glanced away, embarrassed and disappointed, but unable to refute her point. It was Squirt’s hand on his shoulder that made him look up and see her mischievous smile as she finished her earlier thought.

“But dey do know I’m a girl in da Lodge House, even if de seem to forget sometimes. So, when we get back...” 


	27. Carrying the Banner

**“Carrying the Banner...”**

_...In Which A New Home Must Be Found._

* * *

_Manhattan, Spring, 1900_

Crutchie and Squirt had been together a few months, now, and were finding the balancing point between work, friends, and each other, and things were finally settling down at last, as spring was beginning to give way to yet another summer.

Naturally, this meant things had to go wrong, again...

* * *

Squirt reached out to get her stack of papes form the Delanceys, but Oscar didn’t let go. “What’s da big idea?” she demanded, glaring up at the taller young man, heart sinking as she saw his leer. _Oh, no. Don’t tell me it’s started..._

“You really shouldn’t be out on da streets alone,” he muttered darkly, malicious intent clear on his face. “A nice pretty girl like you—who knows what people would do...”

Squirt pulled again, and this time he relinquished the papers, which she quickly stowed away. She lifted her chin defiantly, as if he hadn’t scared her, but she didn’t have a good retort, and she couldn’t get the incident out of her head for the rest of the day.

* * *

That night she asked Jack and a couple of the other older newsies if she could talk with them about something serious. Most had seen the exchange, and even if they hadn’t heard the exact words, they knew it was bad—and that something was about to change in a big way.

Squirt glanced at Crutchie beside her, then her ‘brothers’ scattered around the room before jumping straight to the heart of the matter. “I think it’s time I move on. I don’t think I can stay a newsie much longer at all.” She’d already talked it over with Crutchie, so the tow-headed boy was the only one who didn’t react in shocked disbelief. She quickly rushed to narrate events of that day, urging that Oscar hadn’t made any good on the unspoken threat, but it was clear the potential was there, now.

“Look, it happens for everybody—da time comes when dey’re too old ta keep sellin’. Honestly, I always figured it’d happen sooner for me. I mean, if da bone-headed Delancey’s can see da truth, I betcha most anyone in New York can, too. I gots ta move on.”

She looked around, and most assembled couldn’t meet her eyes, even as it was clear they knew she was telling the truth. Only Jack, who she’d reached a kind of uneasy truce with a month or so before, met her gaze steadily, clearly not happy, but accepting the truth on a rational level, at least. It was Race, though, who broke the silence following her declaration.

“But what’ll you do? You always said you’d never go to a factory.”

Crutchie, the only one present who knew Squirt’s history before coming to the Lodge House, glanced over at his girl, but she didn’t flinch or react—the past was a long ways behind her, now. “I’ve been lookin’ around for a bit. Turns out da hospital dat da nuns run has a trainin’ program for girls dat want to be nurses. You don’t have ta take a vow or nothin’, but dey let you stay in da convent while you train, if you ain’t got a place to goes. I think it’s da best option, and I kinda like de idea of bein’ a nurse, since I’ve already got so much practice.”

The assembled boys were torn—they didn’t want to lose their sister, but while she spoke causally about the program, it was clear to those who knew her well that she was excited by the prospect of becoming an official nurse. Squirt could read the indecision on their faces and spoke gently, hoping to soften the blow.

“Hey, don’t look so defeated—I’m still comin’ back to visit, the convent ain’t dat far away. Besides, dis way, when you knuckleheads get yourselves sick or hurt, I’ll actually know what I’m doin’ when I help youse. Just send someone by da hospital, an’ I’ll come runnin’. You’re my brudder’s—I ain’t about to abandon you.”

“Squirt—” Someone, possibly Specs, began, but she cut him off.

“Emily.” The assembled boys looked at her in surprise, and she mustered a smile, albeit, a crooked one. “Dat’s my real name, so I guess I better get used ta hearin’ it again.”

There wasn’t much to say to or after that, since it was clear she’d made her decision already, and the others drifted away one-by-one, until at last Squirt—no, Emily—and Crutchie were alone in the room. The tow-headed boy turned to the dark-haired girl beside him, his whole face a silent question.

She took his hand reassuringly, smirking as she answered his unspoken worry. “Hey, why do you think I’ll be comin’ by to visit so much? An’ you better come by my place sometimes. Besides, I’ll be dressed as a girl on a permanent basis, so we won’t have ta worry about weird looks if we kiss in public.”

The two stood silently for a bit, holding each other and simply enjoying the other’s company. After some time, though, Emily pulled back a little as some realization dawned, and Crutchie watched a look of horror spread across her face.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, worried.

She turned a dismayed face to him, only managing to squeeze the terrible truth out in a whisper: “Crutchie...I’m going to have to wear skirts!”


	28. Never Meant to Meet

**“Never Meant to Meet...”**

_...In Which A Crucial Alliance is Forged._

* * *

_Manhattan, Spring, 1900_

To Squirt—Emily’s—immense surprise, she had help from an unexpected source when it came time to move her few belongings out of the Lodge House and into the convent: Katherine. Emily hadn’t gotten much more comfortable around the other girl, but she had at least gotten better at hiding the effect that the young reporter had on her.

Admittedly, there was a lot to admire about Katherine, even if she was Pulitzer’s daughter, not the least of which was her unwavering dedication to the strike. And even afterwards, the brash young woman was a common sight at the Lodge House, for obvious reasons. Still, every time she saw the reporter and her seemingly effortless blend of brazen confidence and feminine grace, Emily couldn’t deny feeling...well, not exactly ‘jealous’, but certainly outclassed or out done. For her part, Katherine was still a little embarrassed it’d taken her two weeks to realize that the newsie was, in fact, a girl as well (she figured it out before Davey had, but well after Les).

Those same feelings stifled much in the way of conversation as the two girls worked side-by-side packing together the two little bundles. Most of what Emily would be bringing into her new life were keepsakes from the old one, since she didn’t own much beyond them and her newsie outfits which she would no longer be wearing, starting the next few days. The hospital had a uniform, at least, but she knew she’d need at least one dress for when she wasn’t at work, but she had no idea where she’d get it—or even where to start looking, or what to look for.

As if she’d been thinking the same things, Katherine broke the silence. “Sq—Emily, before we take this over to the convent, do you think we have time to pick out a plain, everyday dress? I can give you some pointers, if you like...” She watched the former newsie hesitate, and knowing Jack’s constant worry, guessed what was crossing the girl’s mind. “You’re worried about affording it, aren’t you?”

Emily tensed, wanting to get defensive, but it _had_ been her main fear. “Yeah, well, you don’t usually have ta worry about dat in a hand-me-down system. But I don’t think any of my brudder’s has a dress stowed away.”

“It certainly _would_ raise a few questions,” Katherine admitted, trying to continue the joke and ease the tension between them. Jack had told her about the argument a few months prior, but she’d had an objective enough viewpoint to see Emily’s point and reasoning, and she knew the other girl had to be terrified at the change she was about to go through—even if it was her idea. But good intentions aside, her next words could backfire in a big way. “I think I might have one that could fit you.”

The dark-haired girl didn’t know she could tense anymore, but she found out she could. “I don’t take charity,” she mumbled at last. “I earn what I gets.”

Honestly, Katherine had half-expected an answer like that—this Emily was either more like Jack than she realized, or such concerns were common to newsies. _Probably both._ “Well, I can think of four ways off the top of my head you can pay me back.”

“Like what?” Emily asked, suspiciously, but interested in spite of herself.

“Well,” Katherine began, and Emily was surprised to see the normally confident reporter seemed hesitant—embarrassed even. “ One: Ideas for ways to get back at Jack when he gets annoying. Two: Things I can do or say to get him to open up a little. Three: Ways I can cheer him up when he won’t stop over-thinking things. Four: Anything you can think of for me to be able to understand him a little. I mean, you probably know him better than just about anybody here, given how long you’ve both been newsies, except for maybe Race and Crutchie, and I can’t really ask _them_...”

Suddenly, the former newsie saw Katherine in a new light: she wasn’t perfect or perfectly composed, she had uncertainties that she was forced to hide, as she didn’t really have any close friends to confide in. As Emily started to answer the questions, the two girls made their way to Katherine’s apartment, and both could to tell this was only the start.

Before they eventually parted, they made plans to get together from time to time, realizing they were each other’s main chance at a female confidant. Emily waved goodbye to her new—friend?—surprised, but not unpleasantly so. _Who knew dat people like us could get along?_


	29. Can't Be Any Worse

**“Can’t Be Any Worse...”**

_...In Which Making a Difference Is an Uphill Battle._

* * *

_Manhattan, Autumn 1900_

_Dis isn’t exactly how I pictured bein’ a nurse would be like._

Emily was only a few months into the program, and was already beginning to realize that being a ‘real nurse’ was a lot more like her frantic nights during a bad sickness in the Lodge House when she honestly didn’t know what she was doing than she’d thought it would be.

Except, this time, the problem wasn’t ignorance—normally. No, now it was the sheer number of people who came to them for help, since the nuns didn’t turn anyone away on the basis of payment, but that also meant they were underfunded and lacked the resources they needed to care for the patients that needed them so desperately. If it weren’t for the donations of ‘generous’ business men (who wanted to seem to care for the poorer inhabitants of the city) there was no way the hospital could stay open at all.

Honestly, it was draining the young woman, physically and emotionally. Physically, as shifts were long and frantic, and emotionally, as all too often the help that came was too little, too late, and even when they did help someone, another would come right on their heels in pain, afraid, and sometimes hysterical.

Some girls had already dropped out of the program, and there’d been times when Emily had been tempted to do the same. At times, it was only the knowledge that she had absolutely nowhere else to go that kept her there. Other times, she was able to see a small child’s grin when he realized the pain was gone, or a mother’s grateful tears when she was told that her baby would live, and the dark-haired young woman was reminded that they were, in fact, making a difference, in individual lives, at least, if not on the grand scale she’d once pictured.

But her main source of encouragement was Crutchie, who made a point of stopping by to see her at least once a week, sometimes more often if he could tell she was going through a difficult period. Sometimes, he’d goof around and try to get her to laugh, or regale her with the stories of the latest escapades in the Lodge House, other times, he was simply quiet and held her, but he always seemed to know exactly what she needed to hear to find the strength to go through another day.

_You know, it’s a hard life, but it’s not a bad one. It’s definitely on worth da livin’._


	30. Love At First Sight's For Suckers...

**“Love at First Sight’s for Suckers...”**

_...In Which Everything Goes Wrong But Ends Up Right._

* * *

The next three years passed quickly, bringing many changes for the ‘veterans’ of the newsie strike. Most of the old guard had grown too old to sell and moved on to one job or another—Jack, as promised, as an editorial cartoonist—Davey and Les had gone back to school as their father did, eventually, find a job, and Emily finished the training program and began work as a full-time nurse at the hospital.

Through it all, she and Crutchie had stuck together. Oh, there’d been a few rough patches, especially when Emily had been worn-out by several consecutive night shifts and consequently short of temper, but nothing worth splitting over, in their eyes.

In the last year, Crutchie finally had to face his own fear: his future beyond the Lodge House. His earlier doubts as to what sort of work he could do had to be faced, and giving up wasn’t an option, if only for Emily’s sake. It was time to take up his real name, Andrew, and find his place in the adult world, as terrifying a thought as that was.

Surprisingly, the answer came, of all places, from Davey and Katherine both. Crutchie had been spending time with the other boy in the last two years, and the two ‘thinkers’ conversed on a variety of topics. Davey had then pitched an idea to Katherine, who’d pulled a few strings, and eventually suggested writing serial stories and editorials that he could sell anonymously to one paper or another. Since Katherine was now working at the _World_ with Jack and her father, that was where Crutchie nervously sent his first attempt at an editorial. To his surprise, it was picked up, as was his first installment in a serial story. The money was slow at first, but as his stories grew more popular and his pen name more widely known, Katherine assured him, it would grow, and he might eventually be able to turn it into a full time job at the paper.

He didn’t want to wait for the promised job that may yet be years in the coming, but after a year, his freelance work had finally gotten him to where he was confident in putting his plan into motion.

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer 1903_

“Hey Andrew!” Emily called when she saw her boyfriend approaching where she was waiting on a bench outside the hospital. Even after a year, the name still felt a little weird on her tongue, and she understood why, shortly after she left, he’d kept slipping up and calling her ‘Squirt’—there were probably more times she called him ‘Crutchie’ than ‘Andrew’ even now!

He limped up to her quickly, dressed in his nicest shirt and pants (still obviously worn, but free of dirt and obvious tears), and gave a little bow as he reached her, the smile on his face and in his eyes a clear indicator that he was up to something. He nodded approvingly when he saw she was wearing the nicer of her two dresses, as he’d asked her to, then held out his free hand, which she took readily enough. It was time to begin!

* * *

Things were going _terribly_. They’d been turned away from three restaurants due to overcrowding, and it wasn’t like they were able to go out to eat all that often. The place they’d ended up was too crowded and noisy for his original idea—not to mention too much of a rough and dirty atmosphere. Time for plan B, then.

But the walk to the park wasn’t much better: it seemed like everyone was in rush, or rude, or just plain mean. They were bumped, jostled, even verbally harassed on at least two occasions, so by the time that they finally made it to the park, Andrew was in a rare foul temper.

For her part, Emily was surprised. This wasn’t their worst night on the town by far, and normally _she_ was the hot-tempered one getting upset and Andrew was the one calming _her _down, but for some reason, the tow-headed young man was almost...angry?

Reaching out a placating hand to him, she asked gently, “Andrew, what’s wrong? You never let dis kind of stuff get to you before...”

“I know, but I just wanted da night I ask you ta marry me to be perfect!” Andrew blurted, too frazzled to realize that he’d revealed his plan until the words were already out of his mouth. He turned a frightened, embarrassed face to Emily, and found that, of all things, she was _smiling_!

She leaned in close, kissing him. Eventually she pulled back a little—only far enough to whisper, “Well, den, I’d say you just did.”


	31. ...At Least It Used To Be

**“...At Least It Used to Be...”**

_...In Which A Forever Home is Finally Forged._

* * *

_Manhattan, Autumn 1903_

The wedding itself was a few weeks later. There wasn’t much of a reason to wait any more: however long they waited, any kind of fancy wedding or dress were out of the question, given that both of them together made just enough to get by.

The service was held in the convent’s chapel, presided over by the priest, with Andrew dressed in his nicest outfit possible. Her coworkers had surprised Emily with a simple white dress they’d apparently been working on during breaks and at night after they’d heard the news.

Neither had any biological family, but the chapel was far from empty—in addition to Emily’s current coworkers, the couple’s closest friends managed to make it: Jack and Katherine, Race, Specs, Romeo, Blink, Snipes, Mush, and several current newsies; even Davey, Les, and Spot!

There wasn’t a reception—they couldn’t afford one—but the group of former and current newsies laughed and talked together in the courtyard with their own packed lunches they’d brought, congratulating and teasing the new couple at the same time.

For their part, Andrew and Emily couldn’t have been happier. Maybe they weren’t rich—maybe they were only just barely scraping by—but they had their friends’ support, and they had each other, and they had the sheer determination to keep pressing on towards better times. Really, what else would they need?


	32. Thanks to That Bottom Line

**“Thanks to That Bottom Line...”**

_...In Which Familiar Faces Take New Stances for Old Reasons._

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer 1904_

The news had everyone else rejoicing, but not Emily. After her shift she deftly avoiding the milling throng that talked animatedly and made her way in thoughtful silence back to the room she and Andrew were renting at Mrs. Crawford’s boarding house.

The twenty-two-year-old looked up as his wife entered, instantly aware something was wrong. She wasn’t obviously angry or sad, so he didn’t think it had anything to do with the patients, and while she was always tired lately, there was something behind the exhaustion. The best way he could put it was that there was something on her mind that she was wrestling with intellectually rather than emotionally.

He stood up from his writing desk, grabbed his crutch and made his way over to Emily, catching her in an embrace—a maneuver he’d gotten a lot better at in the last few years. “What’s eatin’ you?” he asked gently, as the two made their way to the bed and sat, side-by-side.

“You know how da hospital hasn’t had da funds to improve da housin’ for da single nurses? Or the facility itself?”

Andrew nodded, remembering all too well the state of Emily’s prior lodging and current workplace. The room he’d been renting at Mrs. Crawford’s that they now shared wasn’t large or ‘nice’ by most standards, but it _was_ clean and well-kept, and he was grateful for Katherine’s recommendation. “A’nudder budget meeting today?” he asked.

“Actually it was yesterday, but dey made the announcement today: We got a sponsor and a donor behind a five-year renovation project for both da housin’ an’ da hospital. When it’s done, da housin’ will actually be livable, an’ we’ll have one of da best hospitals in da city an’ we still don’t have ta charge dose who can’t pay.” Emily reported the fantastic news in a flat, monotone voice, a clear indication that this marvelous gift came with a huge catch.

This was not lost on Andrew. As a newsie, you had to learn how to read people, and the easiest ones to read were the ones you lived and worked beside your whole life. Add to that romantic love and a year of married life, and there was a lot the couple _didn’t_ have to say aloud. Still, he wasn’t psychic. “Sounds like good news. Why da frown, den?”

Emily glanced over at the tow-headed young man beside her, the mentioned frown twisting into a distasteful grimace as she revealed her main problem: “Dat sponsor an’ da major donor behind da project? It’s one _Joseph Pulitzer._”

Andrew remembered Katherine’s surprised outrage upon her first visit to Emily’s room in the hospital’s housing, and her constant speeches on how conditions there needed to be improved if the city was ever going to be changed for the better, and suspected the fiery reporter had been the one to direct her father towards the particular project. But setting that aside, he now understood why Emily was uneasy.

The two former newsies had learned that, while they still hated accepting charity on an individual level, places like the convent’s hospital relied on it to keep running. Also, it was in itself a place of charity, and Emily had therefore been on the giving end for a few years now, and come to a better understanding of some possible motives other than patronization. Still, accepting it from the nuns who genuinely sought to help was one thing, but from someone like Pulitzer, who just wanted the boost to his reputation...

“Wait a minute...” Andrew mused aloud as an idea struck him. He turned quickly to Emily, unable to stifle a teasing grin. “It ain’t charity!” She merely raised an eyebrow at that, and he rushed to explain his thought: “See, he’s not doin’ dis to really help people, not mainly anyway. He’s doin’ it for da publicity, yeah? Well, den, he’ll get it, for sure. Dat means it’s like he’s getting paid, jus’ not in money. Dat means dis ain’t charity: it’s business!”

Emily’s disbelieving expression melted into a chuckle as the two sat together for another moment. She always could count on Andrew to take the _unique_ perspective on any issue.


	33. We’ll Be Ready to Fight Us a War

**“We’ll Be Ready to Fight Us a War...”**

_...In Which All Fight In Their Own Ways._

* * *

Ten years came and went, bringing with them a lot of changes. Andrew’s stories grew in popularity, and the couple was eventually able to move out of the boarding house into their own apartment. Emily continued to work in the hospital, and would occasionally encounter the new newsies from the Lodge House if they came for treatment for some injury or illness.

Somehow, almost without realizing it, they grey up. Andrew traded in his crutch for a cane, and actually managed quite well with it; Emily relaxed into her roles as a woman, nurse, and wife. They didn’t have children, despite trying, and the sting of that disappointment was one of the few things they struggled to be open with each other about.

They would see their friends often, some more in passing, others, like Jack and Katherine, almost daily (thanks to Andrew’s job), but the biggest change of all soon altered even that: the start of the Great War.

* * *

_Manhattan, Winter 1914_

By the time December rolled around, Andrew was feeling pretty useless. It’d been years since he’d felt self-conscious about his bum leg, but now that it kept him almost literally side-lined, some old worries and doubts were re-surfacing. He knew Emily could tell something was bothering him—might even have a clue as to what—so he’d have a day or two to stew at best before his wife raised the issue.

As it turned out, he had even less than that...

“What’s the matter, Andrew?”

The writer glanced up from his desk, surprised that Emily had managed to sneak up on him, until he remembered how lost in thought he had been. For a moment, he considered brushing it off and pretending everything was fine, but he couldn’t bring himself to be so dishonest. “I haven’t felt this useless in a long time,” he admitted at last. “It seems like everyone we know’s enlisted and shipped over to Europe—even Les!—and you girls at the hospital are taking care of the wounded when they come back. What am I doin’? Collectin’ scrap metal. How helpful.”

As soon as he finished speaking, he was rattled from his thoughts by a short swat to his arm and he turned a surprised face to Emily, who was shaking her head.

“You never realize the impact you have on people, do you? Those stories you’re writing, trying to get people involved in the war effort? They’re _working_. People aren’t just enlisting, their also starting drives of supplies our boys need, and that means I’m getting fewer kids comin’ by me, because you’re helping to keep them safe.” Andrew grimaced in slight disbelief, but that didn’t stop Emily’s instance. “Yes, _you_ and that typewriter of yours _are_ helping. Don’t you ever think that you can’t help or don’t have an impact. Maybe people who don’t know you think that when they first meet you, but no one who spends any time with you thinks that.”

She knelt next to him, smiling up at him with her greyish-blue eyes. “_I’ve_ never thought that. Even from that first day, when we were kids. Andrew, that was the day you were my _hero._”

The two embraced then, his doubts quieted, if only for the moment. Maybe there were rough days ahead, but whatever challenges arose, they’d face them together, just like they’d been doing since they were kids.


	34. Both the Delancey's

**“Both the Delancey’s...”**

_...In Which Festering Wounds Are finally Cleaned._

* * *

_Manhattan, Summer 1915_

It was another day at the hospital, with another shipment of wounded returning across the Atlantic. Most had received what battlefield care they could, but some were in critical condition even now, and even those in no danger of losing their lives would likely never be the same. Still, the nuns and nurses were determined to do what they could for those boys—who would always be ‘boys’ to them, even if the soldiers were older than those caring for them—and Emily was no less determined than the women working beside her.

She was directed down the line of beds by a nod from her supervisor towards two near the end. “Those two are brothers, and apparently they saved their whole unit—that’s how they got hurt. See what you can do for them now; the doctor’s on his way.”

Emily nodded and approached the brothers, who seemed about five or six years older than herself—nearly in their forties—and after a moment, realized she recognized them.

Oscar Delancey, the one who was conscious and seemed to have the fewest injuries locked wide, pain-filled, and frightened eyes onto hers, begging, “Please, save my brother—he’s all da family I gots, and he’s only dat badly hurt because he’ was protecting me. Don’t let him die because he was savin’ me—please!”

Emily muttered something in a soothing tone, going onto to autopilot as she moved to inspect Morris, who was in pretty bad shape. Even if he pulled through, there was no saving his right leg; that much was already clear. Even as she started treatment, her mind kept conjuring up images from sixteen years before: Andrew, when he was still Crutchie, covered in wounds from the beatings at the Refuge, and all the nightmares he’d suffered through in the months that followed, all directly or indirectly the fault of the two men lying on either side of her, with no idea their lives were in the hand of one of the children they had terrorized and tormented for years.

* * *

Emily did what she could for both men, and was eventually relieved by the more qualified surgeon, who wheeled away a still-unconscious Morris towards the operating area. Emily couldn’t help noticing that Oscar watched the whole time, silently, his eyes never leaving the still form of his brother.

She didn’t see him relax his vigil until word came back several hours later that Morris would, in fact, pull through, at which point time he finally surrendered to sleep.

Towards the end of her shift, Emily passed by the two beds that held the brothers, side-by-side once more. _War heroes, huh? Never would’ve guessed that all those years ago. Then again—would they have expected me to be the nurse they’d need to stay alive back then? Probably not._

_I guess you never know how anybody’s gonna turn out._


	35. Let's Begin

**“Let’s Begin...”**

_...In Which New Life Begins Again._

* * *

_Manhattan, Autumn1918_

November 11, 1918—a date few living then were likely to forget, and even as it occurred, Andrew knew that would be the case. The Great War, or European War, or World War, whichever you wished to call it, was over at last, the allies had won!

The writer, who was now a full-time employee of the paper alongside Katherine, was released early for the day, along with his fellow workers, so they could go to their families and celebrate.

And that’s just what he would’ve done, except that Emily wasn’t at the apartment, and didn’t come home for several more hours as he anxiously waited.

* * *

Finally—_finally_—the dark-haired young woman arrived to an equally worried and excited husband. “Emily, where were you? Didn’t you girls get the news: the war’s over; we won!”

“No, we heard; it’s good news,” she replied, in a happy but tired voice, clearly trying to summon a smile through her exhaustion. “But we couldn’t go home. We still had a lot of injured boys that needed us.”

Andrew stilled at that, realizing what his wife hadn’t out rightly said: news of victory was nice, but it didn’t heal the wounded. He also took a moment to take in her drooping stance, the dark circles under eyes, and the general air of weariness; he let her sit and sat beside her, holding her for a moment before speaking again.

“I wish you didn’t have to keep pushing yourself like this. Now that I work at the paper, I make enough to support you, you know. You don’t have to work so many shifts at the hospital.”

It was a conversation a few weeks in coming, but one they hadn’t yet broached, which Emily was now grateful for, considering what she’d realized in the last few days.

She leaned back against him, smiling. “That’s really good...Means our child will have a better chance than we ever got.”

Andrew grew still, trying to process what Emily had just said, trying to figure out if she really meant that the one thing they’d begun to consider impossible had really happened.

The dark-haired young woman turned to see his expression, smiling wider now as she kissed him briefly. “Congratulations: you’re going to be a dad.”

No, he was never going to forget November 11, 1918.


End file.
